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THE CARRONADE WAS RUN FORWARD AND FIRED DOWN THE HATCH 
WAY, TAKING EFFECT AMONGST THE PENT-UP SLAVES. (PAGE 383.) 


FAMOUS NOVELS OF THE SEA 


j 

TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


BY 

MICHAEL SCOTT 

• i 


“ I am as a weed, 

Flung from the rock on ocean’s foam to sail, 

Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.” 

Childe Harold. 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

HARRY EDWARDS 


NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER 
1899 


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Copyright 1899, 

By CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
TWO COPIES RECElVhD, 

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flR«T CORY, 

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PREFATORY NOTICE 


The few particulars Which we know with regard to the 
Author of Tom Cringle’s Log may be compressed almost into 
a sentence. The name of the writer of that series of papers 
(which first appeared in Blackwood' s Magazine ) was Michael 
Scott. He was born in Glasgow, on the 30th October 1789, 
and attended the High School and University there. In 
October 1806, he sailed for Jamaica, where he remained in 
the management of various estates till 1810, when he joined 
a mercantile house in Kingston, Jamaica. It was in the 
course of his employment 'in this establishment, and of the 
numerous visits which he had occasion to pay to the neigh- 
bouring islands and to the Spanish Main, that he acquired 
that familiarity with the character of West Indian Society, 
with the wild and adventurous nature of a nautical life, and 
with the scenes and aspects of a tropical climate, which 
afterwards imparted so much of truth and vivacity to his 
sketches. Returning to his native country in 1817, he married 
in 1818; but again sailed for Jamaica, and did not finally 
settle in Scotland till 1822. In 1829 he addressed to the late 
Mr Blackwood some fragments, under the pseudonym of 
Tom Cringle, in which — brief and slenderly connected as 
they were — that publisher at once discerned the traces of 
original talent, and of great powers of description. He urged 
him to proceed, and to weave his materials into a connected 
form, uniting them by some common link, which, without 
subjecting the writer to the strict rules of narrative compo- 
sition, would keep up a personal and continuous interest in 
the movement of the story. The anticipations, of Mr Black- 
wood as to the popularity of these remarkable sketches were 
completely fulfilled. Their truth of local painting, placing 
the reader at once amidst the wonders and the terrors of a 


v 


vi 


PREFATORY NOTICE 


torrid clime — their strong contrasts, and ever-shifting rapid- 
ity of narration — the broad and often extravagant flood of 
humour which was shed over all these particulars of the reck- 
less life of the sea and the plantations, instantly attracted 
public attention and favour. No series of papers which has ap- 
peared in Blackwood's Magazine ever enjoyed more general 
or continued popularity: they were characterised by the 
Quarterly Review * as the most brilliant series of magazine 
papers of the time; and by Coleridge, in his Table Talk , as 
“ most excellent/’ When reprinted in two volumes, an un- 
usually large edition was almost immediately disposed of, 
on the Continent they have been generally read and admired ; 
and in Germany more than once translated. 

During the publication of these sketches, Mr Scott pre- 
served his incognito even towards his publisher. Mr Black- 
wood died without knowing, except by report from other 
sources, the real name of their author. Mr Scott himself died 
at Glasgow, on the 7th November, 1835. 

*No. C., p. 377. 


1 


CONTENTS 


Chap. 

Prefatory notice, 

I. The launching of the log, 

II. The cruise of the torch, 

III. The quenching of the torch, 

IV. Scenes on the costa firme, 

V. The piccaroon, . 

VI. The cruise of the spark, 

VII. Scenes in Jamaica, . 

VIII. The chase of the smuggler, 

IX. Cuba fishermen, 

X. VOMITO PRIETO, 

XI. More scenes in Jamaica, . 

XII. The cruise of the firebrand, 

XIII. The pirate’s leman, 

XIV. Scenes in cuba, 

XV. The first cruise of the wave — the action 


WITH THE SLAVER, 


Page 

V 

1 

34 

69 

92 

102 

114 

123 

145 

162 

194 

215 

255 

280 

311 

340 


Vll 


> 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


Chap. 


Page. 


XVI. The second cruise of the wave, 

XVII. The third cruise of the wave, 

XVIII. Tropical high-jinks, 

XIX. The last of the log — tom cringle’s fare- 


370 

428 

467 


WELL, 


496 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

The Carronade was Run Forward and Fired Down the 
Hatchway, Taking Effect Amongst the Pent-up 
Slaves, Frontispiece 

“ Answer Him Instantly, and Hail Again for Another 
Boat,” said the Sable Fiend, and Cocked His Pis- 
tol, 110 '/ 


He Again Attempted to Drag Me Away from the Taf- 
ferel, 



I Held Up the Miniature. 


. 232 





■ ' . 




















TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


CHAPTER I 

THE LAUNCHING OF THE LOG 


While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevail’d 
And aye as if for death some lonely trumpet wail’d. 

Gertrude of Wyoming. 

Dazzled by the glories of Trafalgar, I, Thomas Cringle, 
one fine morning in the merry month of May, in the year 
one thousand eight hundred and so and so, magnanimously 
determined in my own mind, that the United Kingdom of 
Great Britain and Ireland should no longer languish under 
the want of a successor to the immortal Nelson, and being 
then of the great perpendicular altitude of four feet four 
inches, and of the mature age of thirteen years, I thereupon 
betook myself to the praiseworthy task of tormenting, to the 
full extent of my small ability, every man and woman who 
had the misfortune of being in any way connected with me, 
until they had agreed to exert all their interest, direct or in- 
direct, and concentrate the same in one focus upon the head 
and heart of Sir Barnaby Blueblazes, vice-admiral of the red 
squadron, a Lord of the Admiralty, and one of the old plain 
ILB.’s, (for he flourished before the time when a gallant 
action or two tagged half of the letters of the alphabet to a 
man’s name, like the tail of a paper kite,) in order that he 
might be graciously pleased to have me placed on the quar- 
terdeck of one of his Majesty’s ships of war without delay. 

The stone I had set thus recklessly a-rolling, had not been 
in motion above a fortnight, when it fell with unanticipated 
violence, and crashed the heart of my poor mother, while it 
terribly bruised that of me, Thomas; for as I sat at breakfast 
with the dear old woman, one fine Sunday morning, admir- 
ing my new blue jacket and snow-white trowsers, and shining 

i 


2 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


well-soaped face, and nicely brushed hair, in the pier glass 
over the chimney-piece, I therein saw the door behind me 
open, and Nicodemus, the waiting-man, enter, and deliver a 
letter to the old lady, with a formidable-looking seal. 

I perceived that she first ogled the superscription, and then 
the seal, very ominously, and twice made as if she would 
have broken the missive open, but her heart seemed as often 
to fail her. At length she laid it down — heaved a long deep 
sigh — took off her spectacles, which appeared dim, dim — 
wiped them, put them on again, and making a sudden effort, 
tore open the letter, read it hastily over, but not so rapidly 
as to prevent her hot tears falling with a small tiny tap tap 
on the crackling paper. 

^ Presently she pinched my arm, pushed the blistered manu- 
script under my nose, and utterly unable to speak to me, 
rose, covered her face with her hands, and left the room 
weeping bitterly. I could hear her praying in a low, solemn, 
•yet sobbing and almost inarticulate voice, as she crossed the 
passage to her own dressing-room . — “ Even as thou wilt, O 
Lord — not mine, but thy holy will be done — yet, oh! it is a 
bitter bitter thing for a widowed mother to part with her only 
boy.” 

Now came my turn, as I read the following epistle three 
times over, with a most fierce countenance, before thoroughly 
understanding whether I was dreaming or awake — in truth, 
poor little fellow as I was, I was fairly stunned. 

“ Admiralty, such a date. ’ 

“ Dear Madam, — It gives me very great pleasure to say that 
your son is appointed to the Breeze frigate, now fitting at 
Portsmouth for foreign service. Captain Wigemwell is a 
most excellent officer, and a good man, and the schoolmaster 
on board is an exceedingly decent person I am informed; so 
I congratulate you on his good fortune in beginning his 
career, in which I wish him all success, under such favour- 
able auspices. As the boy is, I presume, all ready, you had 
better send him down on Thursday next, at latest, as the 
frigate will go to sea, wind and weather permitting, posi- 
tively on Sunday morning. 

“ I remain, my dear Madam, 

“Yours very faithfully, 

“ Barnaby Blueblazes, K.B.” 

However much I had been moved by my mother’s grief, 
my false pride came to my assistance, and my first impulse 
was to chant a verse of some old tune, in a most doleful man- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 


ner. “ All right — all right,” I then exclaimed, as I thrust 
half a doubled up muffin into my gob, but it was all chew 
chew, and no swallow — not a morsel could I force down my 
parched throat, which tightened like to throttle me. 

Old Nicodemus had by this time again entered the room, 
unseen and unheard, and startled me confoundedly, as he 
screwed his words in his sharp cracked voice into my larboard 
ear. “ Jane tells me your mamma is in a sad taking. Master 
Tom. You ben’t going to leave us, all on a heap like, be 
you? Surely you’ll stay until your sister comes from your 
uncle Job’s? You know there are only two on ye — You 
won’t leave the old lady all alone, Master Thomas, will ye ? ” 
The worthy old fellow’s voice quavered here, and the tears 
hopped over his old cheeks through the flour and tallow like 
peas, as he slowly drew a line down the forehead of his well- 
powdered pate, with his fore-finger. 

“No — no — why, yes,” exclaimed I, fairly overcome; “that 
is — oh Nic, Nic, — you old fool, I wish I could cry, man — 
I wish I could cry ! ” and straightway I hied me to my 
chamber, and wept until I thought my very heart would have 
burst. 

In my innocence and ignorance, child as I was, I had 
looked forward to several months’ preparation; to buying 
and fitting of uniforms, and dirks, and cocked hat, and swag- 
gering therein, to my own great glory, and the envy of all 
my young relations; and especially I desired to parade my 
fire-new honours before the large dark eyes of my darling 
little creole cousin, Mary Palma; whereas I was now to be 
bundled on board at a few days’ warning, out of a ready- 
made furnishing shop, with lots of ill-made, glossy, hard- 
mangled duck trousers, creases as sharp as the backs of 
knives, and — “ oh, it never rains, but it pours,” exclaimed 
I ; “ surely all this promptitude is a little de plus in Sir 
Barnaby.” 

However, away I was trundled at the time appointed, with 
an aching heart, to Portsmouth, after having endured the 
misery of a first parting from a fond mother, and a host of 
kind friends; but, miserable as I was, according to my pre- 
conceived determination, I began my journal the very day I 
arrived, that nothing connected with so great a man should 
be lost, and most weighty did the matters therein related ap- 
pear to me at the time; but, seen through the long vista of, 
I won’t say how many years, I really must confess that the 
Log, for long, long after I first went to sea in the Breeze, 
and subsequently when removed to the old Kraaken line-of- 
battle ship, both of which were constantly part of blockading 


4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


squadrons, could be compared to nothing more fitly than a 
dish of trifle, anciently called syllabub, with a stray plum 
here and there scattered at the bottom. But when, after 
several weary years, I got away in the dear old Torch, on a 
separate cruise, incidents came fast enough with a vengeance 
— stern, unyielding, iron events, as I found to my heavy cost, 
which spoke out trumpet-tongued and fiercely for themselves, 
and whose tremendous simplicity required no adventitious 
aid in the narration to thrill through the hearts of others. 
So, to avoid yarn-spinning, I shall evaporate my early Logs, 
and blow off as much of the froth as I can, in order to present 
the residuum free of flummery to the reader — just to give 
him a taste here and there, as it were, of the sort of animal 
1 was at that time. Thus: 

Thomas Cringle, his Log-book. — 

Arrived in Portsmouth, by the Defiance, at ten a.m., on 
such a day. Waited on the Commissioner, to whom I had 
letters, and said I was appointed to the Breeze. Same day, 
went on board and took up my berth; stifling hot; mouldy 
biscuit ; and so on. My mother’s list makes it fifteen shirts, 
whereas I only have twelve. 

Admiral made the signal to weigh, wind at S.W., fresh 
and equally. Stockings should be one dozen worsted, three 
of cotton, two of silk; find only half a dozen worsted, two of 
cotton, and one of silk. Fired a gun and weighed. 

Sailed for the fleet off Vigo, deucedly sea-sick; was told 
that fat pork was the best specific, if bolted half raw; did 
not find it much of a tonic; — passed a terrible night, and 
for four hours of it obliged to keep watch, more dead than 
alive. The very second evening we were at sea, it came on 
to blow, and the night fell very dark, with heavy rain. To- 
wards eight bells in the middle watch, I was standing on a 
gun, well forward on the starboard side, listening to the 
groaning of the maintack, as the swelling sail, the foot of 
which stretched transversely right athwart the ship’s deck 
in a black arch, struggled to tear it up, like some dark impal- 
pable spirit of the air striving to burst the chains that held 
him, and escape high up into the murky clouds, or a giant 
labouring to uproot an oak, and wondering in my innocence 
how hempen cord could brook such strain — when just as the 
long-waited-for strokes of the bell sounded gladly in mine 
ear, and the shrill clear note of the whistle of the boatswain’s 
mate had been followed by his gruff voice, grumbling hoarsely 
through the gale, “ Larboard watch, ahoy ! ” the look-out at 
the weather gangway, who had been relieved, and beside whom 
I had been standing a moment before, stepped past me, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 5 

scrambled up on the booms. “ Hillo, Howard, where away, 
my man ? ” said I. 

“ Only to fetch my ” 

Crack! — the maintack parted, and up flew the sail with a 
thundering flap, loud as the report of a cannon-shot, through 
which, however, I could distinctly hear a heavy smash, as the 
large and ponderous blocks at the clew of the sail struck the 
doomed sailor under the ear, and whirled him off the booms 
into the sea, where he perished, as heaving-to was impos- 
sible, and useless if practicable, as his head must have been 
smashed to atoms. 

This is one of the stray plums of the trifle, what follows 
is a whisk of the froth, written when we looked into Coruna, 
about a week after the embarkation of the army: — 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Farewell,, tliou pillar of the war. 

Warm-hearted soldier, Moore, farewell, 

In honour’s firmament a star. 

As bright as e’er in glory fell. 

Deceived by weak or wicked men, 

How gallantly thou stood’st at bay. 

Like lion hunted to his den, 

Let France tell, on that bloody day. 

No boastful splendour round thy bier. 

No blazon’d trophies o’er thy grave ; 

But thou had’st more, the soldier’s tear. 

The heart-warm offering of the brave. 

On Lusitania’s rock-girt coast. 

All coffinless thy relics lie. 

Where all but honour bright was lost. 

Yet thy example shall not die. 

Albeit no funeral knell was rung. 

Nor o’er thy tomb in mournful wreath 

The laurel twined with cypress hung. 

Still shall it live while Britons breathe. 

What though, when thou wert lowly laid 
Instead of all the pomp of wo, 

The volley o’er thy bloody bed 
Was thunder’d by an envious foe : — 

Inspired by it in after time, 

A race of heroes will appear. 

The glory of Britannia’s clime. 

To emulate thy bright career. 


6 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


And there will be, of martial fire. 

Those who all danger will endure: 

Their first, best aim, but to aspire 
To die thy death— the death of Moore. 

To return. On the evening of the second day, we were off 
Falmouth, and then got a slant of wind that enabled us to 
lie our course. 

Next morning, at daybreak, saw a frigate in the north- 
east quarter, making signals; — soon after we bore up. Bay 
of Biscay — tremendous swell — Cape Finisterre — blockading 
squadron off Cadiz — in-shore squadron — and so on, all trifle 
and no plums. 

At length the Kraaken, in which I had now served for 
some time, was ordered home ; and, sick of knocking about in 
a fleet, I got appointed to a fine eighteen-gun sloop, the Torch, 
in which we sailed, on such a day, for the North Sea — wind 
foul — weather thick and squally; but towards evening on 
the third day, being then off Harwich, it moderated, when we 
made more sail, and stood on, and next morning, in the cold, 
miserable, drenching haze of an October daybreak, we passed 
through a fleet of fishing-boats at anchor. “At anchor,” 
thought I, “ and in the middle of the sea,” — but so it was — • 
all with their tiny cabooses, smoking cheerily, and a solitary 
figure, as broad as it was long, stiffly walking to and fro on 
the confined decks of the little vessels. It was now that I 
knew the value of the saying, “ a fisherman’s walk, two steps 
and overboard.” With regard to these same fishermen, I can- 
not convey a better notion of them, than by describing one 
of the two North Sea pilots whom we had on board. This 
pilot was a tall, raw-boned subject, about six feet or so, with 
a blue face — I could not call it red — and a hawk’s-bill nose 
of the colour of bronze. His head was defended from the 
weather by what is technically called a south-west — pro- 
nounced sow-west — cap, which is in shape like the thatch of 
a dustman, composed of canvass, well tarred, with no snout, 
but having a long flap hanging down the back to carry the 
rain over the cape of the jacket. His chin was imbedded in 
a red comforter that rose to his ears. His trunk was first of 
all cased in a shirt of worsted stocking-net; over this he had 
a coarse linen shirt, then a thick cloth waistcoat; a shag 
jacket was the next layer, and over that was rigged the large 
cumbrous pea-jacket, reaching to his knees. As for his lower 
spars, the rig was still more peculiar ;— first of all, he had on 
a pair of most comfortable woollen stockings, what we call 
fleecy hosiery — and the beauties are peculiarly nice in this 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


7 


respect — then a pair of strong fearnaught trowsers; over 
these again are drawn up another pair of stockings, thick, 
coarse, rig-and-furrow as we call them in Scotland, and above 
all this were drawn a pair of long, well greased, and liquored 
boots, reaching half-way up the thigh, and altogether im- 
pervious to wet. However comfortable this costume may be 
in bad weather in board, it is clear enough that any culprit 
so swathed, would stand a poor chance of being saved, were 
he to fall overboard. The wind now veered round and round, 
and baffled, and checked us off, so that it was the sixth night 
after we had taken our departure from Harwich before we 
saw Heligoland light. We then bore away for Cuxhaven, and 
I now knew for the first time that we had a government emis- 
sary of some kind or another on board, although he had hith- 
erto confined himself strictly to the captain’s cabin. 

All at once it came on to blow from the north-east, and 
we were again driven back among the English fishing-boats. 
The weather was thick as buttermilk, so we had to keep the 
bell constantly ringing, as we could not see the jib-boom end 
from the forecastle. Every now and then we heard a small, 
hard, clanking tinkle, from the fishing-boats, as if an old pot 
had been struck instead of a bell, and a faint hollo, “ Fishing- 
smack,” as we shot past them in the fog, while we could 
scarcely see the vessels at all. The morning after this partic- 
ular time to which I allude, was darker than any which had 
gone before it ; absolutely you could not see the breadth of the 
ship from you ; and as we had not taken the sun for five days, 
we had to grope our way almost entirely by the lead. I had the 
forenoon watch, during the whole of which we were amongst 
a little fleet of fishing-boats, although we could scarcely see 
them, but being unwilling to lose ground by lying to, we fired 
a gun every half hour, to give the small craft notice of our 
vicinity, that they might keep their bells agoing. Every 
three or four minutes, the marine drum-boy, or some ama- 
teur performer, — for most sailors would give a glass of grog 
any day to be allowed to beat a drum for five minutes on end, 
— beat a short roll, and often as we drove along, under a 
reefed foresail, and close reefed topsails, we could hear the 
answering tinkle before we saw the craft from which it pro- 
ceeded; and when we did perceive her as we flew across her 
stern, we could only see it and her mast, and one or two well- 
swathed, hardy fishermen, the whole of the little vessel for- 
ward being hid in a cloud. 

I had been invited this day to dine with the captain, Mr 
Splinter, the first lieutenant, being also of the party; the 
cloth had been withdrawn, and we had all had a glass or two 


8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


of wine a-piece, when the fog settled down so thickly, al- 
though it was not more than five o’clock in the afternoon, 
that the captain desired that the lamp might be lit. It was 
done, and I was remarking the contrast between the dull, 
dusky, brown light, or rather the palpable London fog that 
came through the skylight, and the bright yellow sparkle of 
the lamp, when the master came down the ladder — 

“ We have shoaled our water to five fathoms, sir — shells 
and stones. — Here, Wilson, bring in the lead.” 

The leadsman, in his pea-jacket and shag trowsers, with 
the rain-drop hanging to his nose, and a large knot in his 
cheek from a junk of tobacco therein stowed, with pale, wet 
visage, and whiskers sparkling with moisture, while his long 
black hair hung damp and lank over his fine forehead and 
the stand-up cape of his coat, immediately presented himself 
at the door, with the lead in his claws, an octagonal-shaped 
cone, like the weight of a window-sash, about eighteen inches 
long, and two inches diameter at the bottom, tapering away 
nearly to a point at top, where it was flattened, and a hole 
pierced for the line to be fastened to. At the lower end — 
the butt-end, as I would say — there was a hollow scooped out, 
and filled with grease, so that when the lead was cast, the 
quality of the soil, sand, shells, or mud, that came up ad- 
hering to this lard, indicated, along with the depth of water, 
our situation in the North Sea; and by this, indeed, we 
guided our course, in the absence of all opportunity of ascer- 
taining our position by observations of the sun. 

The captain consulted the chart — “ Sand and shells ; why 
you should have deeper water, master. Any of the fishing- 
boats near you ? ” 

“Not at present, sir; but we cannot be far off some of 
them.” 

“ Well, let me know when you come near any of them.” 

A little after this, as became my situation, I rose and made 
my bow, and went on deck. By this time the night had fallen, 
and it was thicker than ever, so that, standing beside the 
man at the wheel, you could not see farther forward than 
the booms ; yet it was not dark either, — that is, it was moon- 
light, so that the haze, thick as it was, had that silver gauze- 
like appearance, as if it had been luminous in itself, that can- 
not be described to any who has not seen it. The gun had 
been fired just as I came on deck, but no responding tinkle 
gave notice of any vessel being in the neighbourhood. Ten 
minutes, it may have been a quarter of an hour, when a 
short roll of the drum was beaten from the forecastle, where 
I was standing. At the moment I thought I heard a holla. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


9 

but I could not be sure. Presently I saw a small light, with a 
misty halo surrounding it, just under the bowsprit — 

“ Port your helm,” sung out the boatswain, — “ hard-a-port, 
or we shall be over a fishing-boat ! ” 

A cry arose from beneath — a black object was for an in- 
stant distinguishable — and the next moment a crash was 
heard. The spritsail-yard rattled, and broke off sharp at the 
point where it crossed the bowsprit; and a heavy smashing 
thump against our bows told, in fearful language, that we 
had run her down. Three of the men and a boy hung on by 
the rigging of the bowsprit, and were brought safely on 
board ; but two poor fellows perished with their boat. It ap- 
peared, that they had broken their bell and although they 
saw us coming, they had no better means than shouting, and 
shewing a light, to advertise us of their vicinity. 

Next morning the wind once more chopped round, and the 
weather cleared, and in four-and-twenty hours thereafter we 
were ofi the mouth of the Elbe, with three miles of white 
foaming shoals between us and the land at Cuxhaven, roaring 
and hissing, as if ready to swallow us up. It was low water, 
and, as our object was to land the emissary at Cuxhaven, we 
had to wait, having no pilot for the port, although we had 
the signal flying for one all morning, until noon, when we 
ran in close to the green mound which constituted the ram- 
part of the fort at the entrance. To our great surprise, when 
we hoisted our colours and pennant, and fired a gun to lee- 
ward, there was no flag hoisted in answer at the flag-staff, 
nor was there any indication of a single living soul on shore 
to welcome us. Mr Splinter and the captain were standing 
together at the gangway — “ Why, sir,” said the former, “ this 
silence somewhat surprises me : what say you, Cheragoux ? ” 
to the government emissary or messenger already mentioned, 
who was peering through the glass close by. 

“ Why, mi lieutenant, I don’t certain dat all ish right on 
sore dere.” 

“ No? ” said Captain Deadeye, “ why, what do you see? ” 
u It ish not so mosh vat I shee, as vat I no shee, sir, dat 
trembles me. It cannot surely be possib dat de Prussian and 
Hanoverian troop have left de place, and dat dese dem 
Eranceman ave advance so far as de Elbe autrefois , dat ish, 
once more ? ” 

u I'rench ! ” said Deadeye ; “ poo, nonsense ; no Erench here- 
abouts ; none nearer than those cooped up in Hamburgh with 
Davoust, take my word for it.” 

“ I sail take your vord for any ting else in de large vorld, 
mi Capitain; but I see someting glance behind dat rampart, 


IO 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


parapet you call, dat look dem like de shako of de infanterie 
legere of dat willain de Emperor Napoleon. Ah! I see de red 
worsted epaulet of de grenadier also; sacre! vat is dat pof of 
vite smoke ? ” 

What it was w T e soon ascertained to our heavy cost, for the 
shot that had been fired at us from a long 32-pound gun, took 
effect right abaft the foremast, killing three men outright, 
and wounding two. Several other shots followed, but with 
less sure aim. Returning the fire was of no use, as our car- 
ronades could not have pitched their metal much more than 
half way; or, even if they had been long guns, they would 
merely have plumped the balls into the turf rampart, without 
hurting any one. So we wisely hauled off, and ran up the 
river with the young flood for about an hour, until we an- 
chored close to the Hanoverian bank, near a gap in the dike, 
where we waited till the evening. 

As soon as the night fell, a boat with muffled oars was 
manned, to carry the messenger on shore. I was in it; Mr 
Treenail, the second lieutenant, steering. We pulled in right 
for a breach in the dike, lately cut by the French, in order 
to inundate the neighbourhood; and as the Elbe at high 
water is hereabouts much higher than the surrounding coun- 
try, we were soon sucked into the current, and had only to 
keep our oars in the water, pulling a stroke now and then to 
give the boat steerage way. As we shot through the gap into 
the smooth water beyond, we once more gave way, the boat’s 
head being kept in the direction of lights that we saw twink- 
ling in the distance, apparently in some village beyond the 
inner embankment, when all at once we dashed in amongst 
thousands of wild geese, which rose with a clang, and a con- 
cert of quacking, screaming, and hissing, that was startling 
enough. We skimmed steadily on in the same direction — 
“ Oars, men! ” We were by this time close to a small cluster 
of houses, perched on the forced ground or embankment, and 
the messenger hailed in German. 

" Qui vive! ” sung out a gruff voice; and we heard the clank 
of a musket, as if some one had cast it from his shoulder, and 
caught it in his hands, as he brought it down to the charge. 
Our passenger seemed a little taken aback; but he hailed 
again, still in German. “ Parole,” replied the man. A pause. 
“ The watchword, or I fire.” We had none to give. 

“ Pull round, men,” said the lieutenant, with great quick- 
ness ; “ pull the starboard oars ; we are in the wrong box ; back 
water the larboard. That’s it ! give way, men.” 

A flash — crack went the sentry’s piece, and ping sung the 
ball over our heads. Another pause. Then a volley from a 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


II 


whole platoon. Again all was dark and silent. Presently a 
field-piece was fired, and several rockets were let off in our 
direction, by whose light we could see a whole company of 
French soldiers standing to their arms, with several cannon, 
but we were speedily out of the reach of their musketry. 
Several round shots were now fired, that hissed, ricochetting 
along the water close by us. Not a word was spoken in the 
boat all this time; we continued to pull for the opening in 
the dike, although, the current being strong against us, we 
made but little way ; while the chance of being cut off by the 
Johnny Crapeaus getting round the top of the embankment, 
so as to command the gap before we could reach it, became 
every moment more alarming. 

The messenger was in great tribulation, and made several 
barefaced attempts to stow himself away under the stern 
sheets. 

The gallant fellows who composed the crew strained at 
their oars until everything cracked again; but as the flood 
made, the current against us increased, and we barely held 
our own. “ Steer her out of the current, man,” said the lieu- 
tenant to the coxswain; the man put the tiller to port as he 
was ordered. 

“Vat you do soch a ting for, Mr Capitain Lieutenant?” 
said the emissary. “ Oh, you not pershave you are rone in 
onder de igh bank! How you sail satisfy me no France 
infanterie legere dere, too, more as in de fort, eh ? How you 
sail satisfy me, Mister Capitain Lieutenant, eh?” 

“ Hold your blasted tongue, will you,” said Treenail, “ and 
the infantry legere be damned simply. Mind your eye, my 
fine fellow, or I shall be much inclined to see whether you 
will be legere in the Elbe, or no. Hark ! ” 

We all pricked up our ears, and strained our eyes, while a 
bright, spitting, sparkling fire of musketry opened at the gap, 
but there was no ping pinging of the shot overhead. 

“ They cannot be firing at us, sir,” said the coxswain ; 
“ none of them bullets are telling hereaway.” 

? Presently a smart fire was returned in three distinct clus- 
ters from the water, and whereas the firing at first had only 
lit up the dark figures of French soldiery, and the black 
outline of the bank on which they were posted, the flashes 
that answered them shewed us three armed boats attempting 
to force the passage. In a minute the firing ceased; the 
measured splash of oars was heard, as boats approached us. 

“ Who goes there ? ” sung out the lieutenant. 

“ Torches,” was the answer. 

“ All’s well, Torches,” rejoined Mr Treenail; and presently 


12 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the jolly-boat, and launch, and cutter of the Torch, with 
twenty marines, and six-and-thirty seamen, ail armed, were 
alongside. 

“ What cheer, Treenail, my boy ? ” quoth Mr Splinter. 

“Why, not much; the French, who we were told had left 
the Elbe entirely, are still here, as well as at Cuxhaven, not 
in force certainly, but sufficiently strong to pepper us very 
decently in the outgoing.” 

“ What, are any of the people hurt ? ” 

“ No,” said the garrulous emissary. “ No, not hurt, but 
some of us frightened leetle piece — ah, very mosh, je vous 
assure 

“ Speak for yourself, Master Plenippo,” said Treenail. 
“ But, Splinter, my man, now since the enemy have occupied 
the dike in front, how the deuce shall we get back into the 
river, tell me that ? ” 

“ Why,” said the senior lieutenant, “ we must go as we 
came.” 

And here the groans from two poor fellows who had been 
hit were heard from the bottom of the launch. The cutter 
was by this time close to us, on the larboard side, commanded 
by Mr. Julius Caesar Tip, the senior midshipman, vulgarly 
called in the ship Bathos, from his rather unromantic name. 
Here also a low moaning evinced the precision of the French- 
men’s fire. 

“ Lord, Mr Treenail, a sharp brush that was.” 

“Hush!” quoth Treenail. At this moment three rockets 
hissed up from the dark sky, and for an instant the hull and 
rigging of the sloop of war at anchor in the river glanced in 
the blue-white glare, and vanished again, like a spectre, leav- 
ing us in more thick darkness than before. 

“ Gemini ! what is that now ? ” quoth Tip again, as we dis- 
tinctly heard the commixed rumbling and rattling sound of 
artillery, scampering along the dike. 

“ The ship has sent up these rockets to warn us of our 
danger,” said Treenail. “ What is to be done ? Ah, Splinter, 
we are in a scrape — there they have brought up field-pieces, 
don’t you hear ? ” 

Splinter had heard it as well as his junior officer. “ True 
enough, Treenail; so the sooner we make a dash through the 
opening the better.” 

“ Agreed.” 

By some impulse peculiar to British sailors, the men were 
just about cheering, when their commanding officer’s voice 
controlled them. “ Hark, my brave fellows, silence , as you 
value your lives.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


13 


So away we pulled, the tide being now nearly on the turn, 
and presently we were so near the opening that we could see 
the signal-lights in the rigging of the sloop of war. All was 
quiet on the dike. 

“ Thank God, they have retreated, after all,” said Mr 
Treenail. 

“ Whoo — o, whoo — o,” shouted a gruff voice from the 
shore. 

“ There they are still,” said Splinter. “ Marines, stand by, 
don’t throw away a shot. Men, pull like fury. So — give way, 
my lads, a minute of that strain will shoot us alongside of 
the old brig — that’s it — hurrah ! ” 

“ Hurrah ! ” shouted the men in answer ; but his and their 
exclamations were cut short by a volley of musketry. The 
fierce mustaches, pale faces, glazed shakoes, blue uniforms, 
and red epaulets, of the French infantry, glanced for a mo- 
ment, and then all was dark again. 

“Fire!” The marines in the three boats returned the 
salute, and by the flashes we saw three pieces of field artillery 
in the very act of eing unlimbered. We could distinctly hear 
the clash of the mounted artillerymen’s sabres against their 
horses’ flanks as they rode to the rear, their burnished ac- 
coutrements glancing at every sparkle of the musketry. We 
pulled like fiends, and, being the fastest boat, soon headed 
the launch and cutter, who were returning the enemy’s fire 
brilliantly, when crack — a six-pound shot drove our boat into 
staves, and all hands were the next moment squattering in 
the water. I sank a good bit, I suppose, for when I rose to 
the surface, half drowned, and giddy and confused, and 
striking out at random, the first thing I recollected was a 
hard hand being wrung into my neckerchief, while a gruff 
voice shouted in my ear — 

" Rendez vous, mon cher.” 

Resistance was useless. I was forcibly dragged up the 
bank, where both musketry and cannon were still playing 
on the boats, which had, however, by this time got a good 
offing. I soon knew they were safe, by the Torch opening 
a fire of round and grape on the head of the dike, a certain 
proof that the boats had been accounted for. The French 
party now ceased firing, and retreated by the edge of the 
inundation, keeping the dike between them and the brig, all 
except the artillery, who had to scamper off, running the 
gauntlet on the crest of the embankment, until they got 
beyond the range of the carronades. I was conveyed between 
two grenadiers along the water’s edge so long as the shiip was 
firing; but when that ceased, I was clapped on one of the 


H 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


limbers of the field-guns, and strapped down to it between 
two of the artillerymen. 

We rattled along, until we came up to the French bivouac, 
where, round a large fire, kindled in what seemed to have 
been a farm-yard, were assembled about fifty or sixty French 
soldiers. Their arms were piled under the low projecting 
roof of an outhouse, while the fire flickered upon their dark 
figures, and glanced on their bright accoutrements, and lit 
up the wall of the house that composed one side of the 
square. I was immediately marched between a file of men 
into a small room, where the commanding officer of the de- 
tachment was seated at a table, a blazing wood fire roaring 
in the chimney. He was a genteel, slender, dark man, with 
very large black mustaches, and fine sparkling black eyes, 
and had apparently just dismounted, for the mud was fresh 
on his boots and trowsers. The latter were blue, with a 
broad gold lace down the seam, and fastened by a strap 
under his boot, from which projected a long fixed spur, which 
to me was remarkable as an unusual dress for a militaire, the 
British army being, at the time I write of, still in the age of 
breeches and gaiters, or tall boots, long cues and pipeclay — 
that is, those troops which I had seen at home, although I 
believe the great Duke had already relaxed a number of these 
absurdities in Spain. 

His single-breasted coat was buttoned up to his throat, and 
without an inch of lace except on his crimson collar, which 
fitted close round his neck, and was richly embroidered with 
gold acorns and oak leaves, as were the crimson cuffs to his 
sleeves. He wore two immense and very handsome gold 
epaulets. 

“ My good boy,” said he, after the officer who had cap- 
tured me had told his story — “ so your Government thinks 
the Emperor is retreating from the Elbe ? ” 

I was a tolerable French scholar as times went, and an- 
swered him as well as I could. 

“ I have said nothing about that, sir ; but, from your ques- 
tion, I presume you command the rear-guard, colonel ? ” 

“ How strong is your squadron on the river ? ” said he, par- 
rying the question. 

“ There is only one sloop of war, sir ; ” — and I spoke the 
truth. 

He looked at me, and smiled incredulously; and then con- 
tinued — 

“ I don’t command the rear-guard, sir — But I waste time — 
are the boats ready ? ” 

He was answered in the affirmative. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


15 


“ Then set fire to the houses, and let off the rockets ; they 
will see them at Cuxhaven — men, fall in — march” — and off 
we all trundled towards the river again. 

When we arrived there, we found ten Blankanese boats, 
two of them very large, and fitted with sliding platforms. 
The four field-pieces were run on board, two into each; one 
hundred and fifty men embarked in them and the other craft, 
which I found partly loaded with sacks of corn. I was in one 
of the smallest boats with the colonel. When we were all 
ready to shove off, “ Lafont,” said he, “ are the men ready 
with their couteaux ? ” 

“ They are, sir,” replied the sergeant. 

“ Then cut the horses’ throats — but no firing.” A few 
bubbling groans, and some heavy falls, and a struggling 
splash or two in the water, shewed that the poor artillery 
horses had been destroyed. 

The wind was fair up the river, and away we bowled before 
it. It was clear to me that the colonel commanding the post 
had overrated our strength, and under the belief that we had 
cut him off from Cuxhaven, he had determined on falling 
back on Hamburgh. 

When the morning broke, we were close to the beautiful 
bank below Alton a. The trees were beginning to assume the 
russet hue of autumn, and the sun shone gaily on the pretty 
villas and bloomin Gartens on the hillside, while here and 
there a Chinese pagoda, or other fanciful pleasure-house, with 
its gilded trellised works, and little bells depending from the 
eaves of its many roofs, glancing like small golden balls, rose 
from out the fast thinning recesses of the woods. But there 
was no life in the scene — ’twas “ Greece, but living Greece 
no more,” — not a fishing-boat was near, scarcely a solitary 
figure crawled along the beach. 

“ What is that ? ” after we had passed Blankanese, said 
the colonel, quickly. “ Who are those?” as a group of three 
or four men presented themselves at a sharp turning of the 
road, that wound along the foot of the hill close to the shore. 

“ The uniform of the Prussians,” said one. 

“ Of the Russians, ” said another. 

“Poo,” said a third, “ it is a picket of the prince’s; ” and 
so it was, but the very fact of his having advanced his out- 
posts so far, shewed how he trembled for his position. After 
answering their hail, we pushed on, and as the clocks were 
striking twelve, we were abreast of the strong beams, that 
were clamped together with iron, and constituted the boom, 
or chief water defence of Hamburgh. We passed through, 
and found an entire regiment under arms, close by the 


i6 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


Custom-house. Somehow or other, I had drank deep of 
that John Bull prejudice, which delights to disparage the 
physical conformation of our Gallic neighbours, and hugs 
itself with the absurd notion' “ that on one pair of English 
legs doth march three Frenchmen.” But when I saw the 
weather-beaten soldierlike veterans, who formed this com- 
pact battalion, part of the elite of the first corps , more com- 
manding in its aspect from severe service having worn all 
the gilding and lace away — “ there was not a piece of 
feather in the host ” — I felt the reality before me fast over- 
coming my preconceived opinion. I had seldom or ever 
seen so fine a body of men, tall, square, and muscular, the 
spread of their shoulders set off by their large red worsted 
epaulets, and the solidity of the mass increased by their wide 
trowsers, which in my mind contrasted advantageously with 
the long gaiters and tight integuments of our own brave 
fellows. 

We approached a group of three mounted officers, and in 
a few words, the officer, whose prisoner I was, explained the 
affair to the chef de hataillon, whereupon I was immediately 
placed under the care of a sergeant and six rank and file, and 
marched along the chief canal for a mile, where I could not 
help remarking the numberless large rafts — you could not 
call them boats — of unpainted pine timber, which had arrived 
from the upper Elbe, loaded with grain ; with gardens, abso- 
lute gardens, and cowhouses, and piggeries on board; while 
their crews of Fierlanders, men, women, and children, cut a 
most extraordinary appearance, — the men in their jackets, 
with buttons like pot-lids, and trousers fit to carry a month’s 
provender and a couple of children in; and the women with 
bearings about the quarters, as if they had cut holes in large 
cheeses, three feet in diameter at least, and stuck themselves 
through them — such sterns — and as to their costumes, all 
very fine in a Flemish painting, but the devils appeared to be 
awfully nasty in real life. 

We carried on until we came to a large open space fronting 
a beautiful piece of water, which I was told was the Alster. 
As I walked through the narrow streets, I was struck with 
the peculiarity of the gables of the tall houses being all 
turned towards the thoroughfare, and with the stupendous 
size of the churches. We halted for a moment in the porch 
of one of the latter, and my notions of decency were not a 
little outraged, by seeing it filled with a squadron of dragoons, 
the men being in the very act of cleaning their horses. At 
length we came to the open space on the Alster, a large 
parade, faced by a street of splendid houses on the left hand, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


1 7 


with a row of trees between them, and the water on the right. 
There were two regiments of foot bivouacking here, with 
their arms piled under the trees, while the men were vari- 
ously employed, some on duty before the houses, others clean- 
ing their accoutrements, and others again playing at all kinds 
of games. Presently we came to a crowd of soldiers clus- 
tered round a particular spot, some laughing, others cracking 
coarse jests, but none at all in the least serious. We could 
not get near enough to see distinctly what was going on; but 
we afterwards saw, when the crowd had dispersed, three men 
in the dress of respectable burghers, hanging from a low gib- 
bet, — so low in fact, that although their heads were not six 
inches from the beam, their feet were scarcely three from the 
ground. I was here placed in a guard-house, and kept there 
until the evening, when I was again marched olf under my 
former escort, and we soon arrived at the door of a large 
mansion, fronting this parade, where two sentries were walk- 
ing backwards and forwards before the door, while five dra- 
goon horses, linked together, stood in the middle of the street, 
with one soldier attending them, but there was no other par- 
ticular bustle, to mark the headquarters of the general com- 
manding. We advanced to the entrance — the sentries carry- 
ing arms — and were immediately ushered into a large saloon, 
the massive stair winding up along the walls, with the usual 
heavy wooden balustrade. We ascended to the first floor, 
where we were encountered by three aides-de-camp, in full 
dress, leaning with their backs against the hard- wood railing, 
laughing and joking with each other, while two wall-lamps 
right opposite cast a bright flashing light on their splendid 
uniforms. They were all decore with one order or another. 
We approached. 

“ Whence, and who have we here ? ” said one of them, a 
handsome young man, apparently not above twenty-two, as 
I judged, with small tiny black, jet-black, mustaches, and 
a noble countenance; fine dark eyes, and curls dark and clus- 
tering. 

The officer of my escort answered, “A young Englishman, 
— enseigne de vaisseau” 

I was no such thing, as a poor middy has no commission, 
but only his rating, which even his captain, without a court- 
martial, can take away at any time, and turn him before the 
mast. 

At this moment I heard the clang of a sabre, and the jingle 
of spurs on the stairs, and the group was joined by my cap- 
tor, Colonel * * * 

“Ah, colonel ! ” exclaimed the aides, in a volley, “ where the 


i8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


devil have you come from? We thought you were in Brux- 
elles at the nearest.” 

The colonel put his hand on his lips and smiled, and then 
slapped the young officer who spoke first with his glove. 
“ Never mind, boys, I have come to help you here — you 

will need help before long ; — but how is 1 ” Here he 

made a comical contortion of his face, and drew his ungloved 
hand across his throat. The young officers laughed, and 
pointed to the door. He moved towards it, preceded by the 
youngest of them, who led the way into a very lofty and 
handsome room, elegantly furnished, with some fine pictures 
on the walls, a handsome sideboard of plate, a rich Turkey 
carpet — an unusual thing in Germany — on the floor, and 
a richly gilt pillar, at the end of the room farthest from us, 
the base of which contained a stove, which, through the 
joints of the door of it, appeared to be burning cheerily. 

There were some very handsome sofas and ottomans 
scattered through the room, and a grand piano in one corner, 
the furniture being covered with yellow, or amber-coloured 
velvet, with broad heavy draperies of gold fringe, like the 
bullion of an epaulet. There was a small round table near 
the stove, on which stood a silver candlestick, with four 
branches filled with wax tapers; and bottles of wine, and 
glasses. At this table sat an officer, apparently about forty- 
five years of age. There was nothing very peculiar in his 
appearance; he was a middle-sized man, well made appa- 
rently. He sat on one chair, with his legs supported on 
another. 

His w/uYe-topped boots had been taken off, and replaced 
by a pair of slipshod slippers; his splashed white kerseymere 
pantaloons, seamed with gold, resting on the unfrayed velvet 
cushion; his blue coat, covered with rich embroidery at the 
bosom and collar, was open, and the lappels thrown back, 
displaying a crimson-velvet facing, also richly embroidered, 
and an embroidered scarlet waistcoat; a large solitary star 
glittered on his breast, and the grand cross of the Legion of 
Honour sparkled at his button-hole; his black neckerchief 
had been taken off;, and his cocked hat lay beside him on 
a sofa, massively laced, the edges richly ornamented with 
ostrich down; his head was covered with a red velvet cap, 
with a thick gold cord twisted two or three turns round it, 
and ending in two large tassels of heavy bullion; he wore 
very large epaulets, and his sword had been inadvertently, 
as I conjectured, placed on the table, so that the steel hilt 
rested on the ornamental part of the metal stove. 

His face was good, his hair dark, forehead without a 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


19 


wrinkle, high and massive, eyes bright and sparkling, nose 
neither fine nor dumpy — a fair enough proboscis as noses 
go. I here was an expression, however, about the upper lip 
and mouth that I did not like — a constant nervous sort of 
lifting of the lip as it were; and as the mustache appeared 
to have been recently shaven off, there was a white blueness 
on the upper lip, that contrasted unpleasantly with the dark 
tinge which he had gallantly wrought for on the glowing 
sands of Egypt, and the bronzing of his general features from 
fierce suns and parching winds. His bare neck and hands 
were delicately fair, the former firm and muscular, the latter 
slender and tapering, like a woman’s. He was reading a 
gazette, or some printed paper, when we entered; and 
although there was a tolerable clatter of muskets, sabres, 
and spurs, he never once lifted his eye in the direction 
where we stood. Opposite this personage, on a low chair, 
with his legs crossed, and eyes fixed on the ashes that were 
dropping from the stove, with his brown cloak hanging 
from his shoulders, sat a short stout personage, a man about 
thirty years of age, with fair flaxen hair, a florid complexion, 
a very fair skin, and massive German features. The ex- 
pression of his face, so far as such a countenance could be 
said to have any characteristic expression, was that of fixed 
sorrow. But before I could make any other observation, 
the aide-de-camp approached with a good spice of fear and 
trembling, as I could see. 

“ Colonel * * * to wait on your highness.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the officer to whom he spoke, — “ ah, colonel, 
what do you here ? Has the emperor advanced again ? ” 

“No,” said the officer, “he has not advanced; but the 

rear-guard were cut off bj r the Prussians, and the light, 

with the grenadiers, are now in Cuxhaven.” 

“Well,” replied the general, “but how come you here?” 

“Why, marshal, we were detached to seize a depot of 
provisions in a neighbouring village, and had made prepara- 
tions to carry them off, when we were attacked through a 
gap in the dike, by some armed boats from an English 
squadron, and hearing a distant firing at the very moment, 
which I concluded to be the Prussian advance, I conceived 
all chance of rejoining the main army at an end, and there- 
fore I shoved off in the grain-boats, and here I am.” 

“ Glad to see you, however,” said the general, “ but sorry 
for the cause why you have returned.— Who have we got 
here — what boy is that ? ” 

“ Why,” responded the colonel, “ that lad is one of the 
British officers of the force that attacked us ” 


20 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Ha,” said the general again, “ how did you capture 
him ? ” 

“ The boat (one of four) in which he was, was blown to 
pieces by a six-pound shot. He was the only one of the 
enemy who swam ashore. The rest, I am inclined to think, 
were picked up by the other boats.” 

“ So,” grumbled the general, “ British ships in the Elbe ! ” 

The colonel continued. “ I hope, marshal, you will allow 
him his parole? — he is, as you see, quite a child.” 

“ Parole ! ” replied the marshal, — “ parole ! such a mere 
lad cannot know the value of his promise.” 

A sudden fit of rashness came over me. 

“ He is a mere boy,” reiterated the marshal. c< No, no — 
send him to prison;” and he resumed the study of the 
printed paper he had been reading. 

I struck in, impelled by despair, for, young as I was I 
knew the character of the man before whom I stood, and I 
remembered that even a tiger might be checked by a bold 
front — “ I am an Englishman, sir, and incapable of breaking 
my plighted word.” 

He laid down the paper he was reading, and slowly lifted 
his eyes, and fastened them on me, — “ Ha,” said he, “ ha — 
so young — so reckless ! ” 

“ Never mind him, marshal,” said the colonel. “ If you 
will grant him his parole, I ” 

“ Take it, colonel — take it — take his parole, not to go 
beyond the ditch.” 

“ But I decline to give any such promise,” said I, with a 
hardihood which at the time surprised me, and has always 
done so. 

“ Why, my good youth,” said the marshal in great sur- 
prise, “why will you not take advantage of the offer — a 
kinder one, let me tell you, than I am in the habit of making 
to an enemy ? ” 

“ Simply, sir, because I will endeavour to escape on the 
very first opportunity.” 

“ Ha ! ” said the marshal once more, “ this to my face ? 
Lafontaine,” — to the aide-de-camp, — “ a file of soldiers.” 
The handsome young officer hesitated — hung in the wind, 
as we say, for a moment — moved, as I imagined, by my 
extreme youth. This irritated the marshal — he rose, and 
stamped on the floor. The colonel essayed to interfere. 
“ Sentry — sentry — a file of grenadiers — take him forth, 

and ” here he energetically clutched the steel hilt of his 

sword, and instantly dashed it from him — “ Sacre! the 
devil — what is that ? ” and straightway he began to pirouette 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


21 


on one leg round the room, shaking his right hand and 
blowing his fingers. 

The officers in waiting could not stand it any longer, and 
burst into a fit of laughter, in which their commanding 
officer, after an unavailing attempt to look serious — I should 
rather write fierce — joined; and there he was, the bloody 
Davoust — Duke of Auerstad — Prince of Eckmuhl — the 
Hamburgh Robespierre— the terrible Davoust — dancing all 
around the room, in a regular guffaw, like to split his sides. 
The heated stove had made his sword, which rested on it, 
nearly red-hot. 

All this while the quiet, plain-looking little man sat still, 
lie now rose; but I noticed that he had been fixing his eyes 
intently on me. I thought I could perceive a tear glistening 
in them as he spoke. 

“ Marshal, will you intrust that boy to me ? ” 

“ Poo,” said the prince, still laughing, “ take him — do 
what you will with him ; ” — then, as if suddenly recollecting 
himself, “ But, Mr * * *, you must be answerable for him 
— he must be at hand if I want him.” 

The gentleman who had so unexpectedly patronized me 
rose, and said, “ Marshal, I promise.” 

“Very well,” said Davoust. “ Lafontaine, desire supper 
to be sent up.” 

It was brought in, and my new ally and I were shewn out. 

As we went down stairs, we looked into a room on the 
ground floor, at the door of which were four soldiers with 
fixed bayonets. We there saw, for it was well lit up, about 
twenty or five-and-twenty respectable-looking men, very 
English in appearance, all to their long cloaks, an unusual 
sort of garment to my eye at that time. The night was 
very wet, and the aforesaid garments were hung on pegs in 
the wall all around the room which being strongly heated 
by a stove, the moisture rose up in a thick mist, and made 
the faces of the burghers indistinct. 

They were busily engaged talking to each other, some to 
his neighbour, the others across the table, but all with an 
expression of the most intense anxiety. 

“ Who are these ? ” said I to my guide. 

“Ask no questions here,” said he, and we passed on. 

I afterwards learned that they were the hostages seized on 
for the contribution of fifty millions of francs, which had 
been imposed on the doomed city, and that this very night 
they had been torn from their families, and cooped up in the 
way I had seen, where, they were advertised, they must 
remain until the money should be forthcoming. 


22 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


As we walked along the streets, and crossed the numerous 
bridges over the canals and branches of the river, we found 
ail the houses lit up, by order, as I learned, of the French 
marshal. The rain descended in torrents, sparkling past the 
lights, while the city was a desert, with one dreadful excep- 
tion; for we were waylaid at almost every turn by groups 
of starving lunatics, their half-naked figures and pale visages 
glimmering in the glancing lights, under the dripping rain; 
and, had it not been for the numerous sentries scattered 
along the thoroughfares, I believe we should have been torn 
to pieces by bands of moping idiots, now rendered ferocious 
from their sufferings, in consequence of the madhouses hav- 
ing been cleared of their miserable, helpless inmates, in order 
to be converted into barracks for the troops. At all of 
these bridges sentries were posted, past which my conductor 
and myself were franked by the sergeant who accompanied 
us giving the countersign. At length, civilly touching his 
cap, although he did not refuse the piece of money tendered 
by my friend, he left us, wishing us good-night, and saying 
the coast was clear. 

We proceeded, without further challenge, until we came to 
a very magnificent house, with some fine trees before it. We 
approached the door, and rung the door-bell. It was imme- 
diately opened, and we entered a large desolate-looking vesti- 
bule, about thirty feet square, filled in the centre with a 
number of bales of goods, and a variety of merchandise, 
while a heavy wooden stair, with clumsy oak balustrades, 
wound round the sides of it. We ascended, and turning to 
the right, entered a large well-furnished room, with a table 
laid out for supper, with lights, and a comfortable stove at 
one end. Three young officers of cuirassiers, in their superb 
uniforms, whose breast and back pieces were glittering on a 
neighbouring sofa, and a colonel of artillery, were standing 
round the stove. The colonel, the moment we entered, ad- 
dressed my conductor : — 

“ Ah, * * *, we are devilish hungry — Ich bin dem Ver- 
Jiungern nake — and were just on the point of ordering in the 
provender, had you not appeared.” 

“ A little more than that,” thought I ; for the food was al- 
ready smoking on the table. 

Mine host acknowledged the speech with a slight smile. 

“ But who have we here ? ” said one of the young dragoons. 
He waited a moment — “ Etes vous Fran^ais? ” I gave him 
no answer. He then addressed me in German — u Sprechen 
sie gelaiifig Deutsch?” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 23 

“ Wliy,” chimed in my conductor, “ he does speak a little 
French indifferently enough; but still ” 

Here I was introduced to the young officers, and we all 
sat down at table; the colonel, civility itself, pressing my 
host to drink his own wine, and eat his own food, and even 
rating the servants for not being sufficiently alert in their 
attendance on their own master. 

“ Well, my dear * * *, how have you sped with the 
prince ? ” 

“ Why, colonel,” said my protector, in his cool, calm way, 
“ as well as I expected. I was of some service to him when he 
was here before, at the time he was taken so very ill, and he 
has not forgotten it; so I am not included amongst the un- 
fortunate detenus for the payment of the fine. But that is 
not all ; for I am allowed to go to-morrow to my father’s, and 
here is my passport.” 

“Wonders will never cease,” said the colonel; “but who' 
is that boy” 

“ He is one of the crew of the English boats which tried to 
cut off Colonel * * * the other evening, near Cuxhaven. 
His life was saved by a very laughable circumstance cer- 
tainly; merely by the marshal’s sword, from resting on the 
stove, having become almost red-hot.” And here he detailed 
the whole transaction as it took place, which set the party 
a-laughing most heartily. 

I will always bear witness to the extreme amenity with 
which I was now treated by the French officers. The evening 
passed over quickly. About eleven we retired to rest, my 
friend furnishing me with clothes, and warning me, that 
next morning he would call me at daylight, to proceed to his 
father’s country-seat, where he intimated that I must remain 
in the meantime. 

Next morning I was roused accordingly, and a long, low, 
open carriage rattled up to the door, just before day-dawn. 
Presently the reveille was beaten, and answered by the differ- 
ent posts in the city, and on the ramparts. 

We drove on, merely showing our passport to the sentries 
at the different bridges, until we reached the gate, where we 
had to pull up until the officer on duty appeared, and had 
scrupulously compared our personal appearance with the 
written description. All was found correct, and we drove 
on. 

It surprised me very much, after having repeatedly heard 
of the great strength of Hamburgh, to look out on the large 
mound of green turf that constituted its chief defence. It 
is all true that there was a deep ditch and glacis beyond; but 


24 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


there was no covered way, and both the scarp and counter- 
scarp were simple earthen embankments; so that, had the 
ditch been filled with fascines, there was no wall to face the 
attacking force after crossing it, — nothing but a green 
mound, precipitous enough, certainly, and crowned with a 
low parapet of masonry, and bristling with batteries about 
half way down, so that the muzzles of the guns were flush 
with the neighbouring country beyond the ditch. Still there 
was wanting, to my imagination, the strength of the high 
perpendicular wall, with its gaping embrazures, and frown- 
ing cannon. All this time it never occurred to me, that to 
breach such a defence as that we looked upon was impossi- 
ble. You might have plumped your shot into it until you 
had converted it into an iron mine, but no chasm could have 
been forced in it by all the artillery in Europe; so that bat- 
tering in breach was entirely out of the question, and this, 
in truth, constituted the great strength of the place. 

We arrived, after an hour’s drive, at the villa belonging to 
my protector’s family, and walked into a large room, with a 
comfortable stove, and extensive preparations made for a 
comfortable breakfast. 

Presently three young ladies appeared. They were his 
sisters; — blue-eyed, fair-haired, white-skinned, round- 
sterned, plump little partridges. 

“ Haben sie gefruhstiichtf " said the eldest. 

“ Pas encore ” said he in French, with a smile. “But, sis- 
ters, I have brought a stranger here, a young English officer, 
who was recently captured in the river.” 

“ An English officer ! ” exclaimed the three ladies, looking 
at me, a poor, little, dirty midshipman, in my soiled linen, 
unbrushed shoes, dirty trowsers and jacket, with my little 
square of white cloth on the collar; and I began to find the 
eloquent blood mantling in my cheeks, and tingling in my 
ears ; but their kindly feelings got the better of a gentle pro- 
pensity to laugh, and the youngest said — 

“Sie sind gerade zu rechter zeit gekommen:” when, find- 
ing that her German was Hebrew to me, she tried the other 
tack — “ Vous arrivez d propos , le dejeune est pret.” 

However, I soon found that the moment they were assured 
that I was in reality an Englishman, they all spoke English, 
and exceedingly well too. Our meal was finished, and t was 
standing at the window looking out on a small lawn, where 
evergreens of the most beautiful kinds were checkered with 
little round clumps of most luxuriant hollyhocks, and the 
fruit-trees in the neighbourhood were absolutely bending to 
the earth under their loads of apples and pears. Presently 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 25 

my friend came up to me; my curiosity could no longer be 
restrained. 

“ Pray, my good sir, what peculiar cause, may I ask, have 
you for shewing me, an entire stranger to you, all this unex- 
pected kindness? I am fully aware that I have no claim on 
you.” 

“ My good boy, you say true ; but I have spent the greatest 
part of my life in London, although a Hamburgher born, and 
I consider you, therefore, in the light of a countryman. Be- 
sides, I will not conceal that your gallant bearing before 
Davoust riveted my attention, and engaged my good wishes.” 

“ But how come you to have so much influence with the 
mon — general, I mean ? ” 

“For several reasons,” he replied. “For those, amongst 
others, you heard the colonel — who has taken the small lib- 
erty of turning me out of my own house in Hamburgh — 
mention last night at supper. But a man like Davoust can- 
not be judged of by common rules. He has, in short, taken 
a fancy to me, for which you may thank your stars — al- 
though your life has been actually saved by the Prince hav- 
ing burned his fingers. — But here comes my father.” 

A venerable old man entered the room, leaning on his 
stick. I was introduced in due form. 

“ He had breakfasted in his own room,” he said, “ having 
been ailing; but he could not rest quietly, after he had heard 
there was an Englishman in the house, until he had himself 
welcomed him.” 

I shall never forget the kindness I experienced from these 
worthy people. For three days I was fed and clothed by 
them as if I had been a member of the family. 

Like a boy as I was, I had risen on the fourth morning 
at gray dawn, to be aiding in dragging the fish-pond, so that 
it might be cleaned out. This was an annual amusement, 
in which the young men and women in the family, under 
happier circumstances, had been in the invariable custom of 
joining; and, changed as these were, they still preserved the 
fashion. The seine was cast in at one end, loaded at the 
bottom with heavy sinks, and buoyant at the top with cork 
floats. We hauled it along the whole length of the pond, 
thereby driving the fish into an enclosure, about twenty feet 
square, with a sluice towards the pond, and another fronting 
the dull ditch that flowed past beyond it. Whenever we had 
hunted the whole of the finny tribes — (barring those slippery 
youths the eels, who, with all their cleverness, were left to 
dry in the mud) — into the toils, we filled all the tubs, and 
pots, and pans, and vessels of all kinds and descriptions, with 


26 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the fat, honest-looking Dutchmen, the carp and tench, who 
really submitted to their captivity with all the resignation of 
most ancient and quiet fish, scarcely indicating any sense of 
its irksomeness, except by a lumbering sluggish flap of their 
broad heavy tails. 

A transaction of this kind could not take place amongst a 
group of young folk without shouts of laughter, and it was 
not until we had caught the whole of the fish in the pond, 
and placed them in safety, that I had leisure to look about 
me. The city lay nearly four miles distant from us. The 
whole country round Hamburgh is level, except the right 
bank below it of the noble river on which it stands, the Elbe. 
The house where I was domiciled stood on nearly the highest 
point of this bank, which gradually sloped down into a 
swampy hollow, nearly level with the river. It then rose 
again gently until the swell was crowned with the beautiful 
town of Altona, and immediately beyond appeared the ram- 
parts and tall spires of the noble city itself. 

The morning had been thick and foggy, but as the sun 
rose, the white mist that had floated over the whole country, 
gradually concentrated and settled down into the hollow 
between us and Hamburgh, covering it with an impervious 
veil, which even extended into the city itself, filling the lower 
part of it with a dense white bank of fog, which rose so high 
that the spires alone, with one or two of the most lofty 
buildings, appeared above the rolling sea of white fleece-like 
vapour, as if it had been a model of the stronghold, in place 
of the reality, packed in white wool, so distinct did it appear, 
diminished as it was in the distance. On the tallest spire of 
the place, which was now sparkling in the early sunbeams, 
the French flag, the pestilent tricolor, that upas-tree, waved 
sluggishly in the faint morning breeze. 

It attracted my attention, and I pointed it out to my 
patron. Presently it was hauled down, and a series of sig- 
nals was made at the yard-arm of a spar that had been slung 
across it. Who can they be telegraphing to? thought I, 
while I could notice my host assume a most anxious and 
startled look, while he peered down into the hollow; but he 
could see nothing, as the fog bank still filled the whole of the 
space between the city and the acclivity where we stood. 

“What is that?” said I; for I heard, or thought I heard, 
a low rumbling rushing noise in the ravine. Mr * * * heard 
it as well as I apparently, for he put his finger to his lips — as 
much as to say, “ Hold your tongue, my good boy — nous 
verronsT 

4 It increased — the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and the clang 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


2 7 


of scabbards were heard, and, in a 'twinkling, the hussar caps 
of a squadron of light dragoons emerged from out the fog 
bank, as, charging up the road, they passed the small gate of 
green basket-work at a hand-gallop. I ought to have men- 
tioned before, that my friend’s house was situated about half 
way up the ascent, so that the rising ground behind it in the 
opposite direction from the city shut out all view towards 
the country. After the dragoons passed, there was an inter- 
val of two minutes, when a troop of flying artillery, with 
three six-pound field-pieces, rattled after the leading squad- 
ron, the horses all in a lather, at full speed, with the guns 
bounding and jumping behind them as if they had been play- 
things, followed by their caissons. Presently we could see 
the leading squadron file to the right — clear the low hedge — 
and then disappear over the crest of the hill. Twenty or 
thirty pioneers, who had been carried forward behind as 
many of the cavalry, were now seen busily employed in fill- 
ing up the ditch, and cutting down the short scrubby hedge; 
and presently, the artillery coming up also, filed off sharply 
to the right, and formed on the very summit of the hill, dis- 
tinctly visible between us and the gray cold streaks of morn- 
ing. By the time we had noticed this, the clatter in our im- 
mediate neighbourhood was renewed, and a group of 
mounted officers dashed past us, up the path, like a whirl- 
wind, followed, at a distance of twenty yards, by a single 
cavalier, apparently a general officer. These did not stop, as 
they rode at speed past the spot where the artillery were in 
position, but dipping over the summit, disappeared down the 
road, from which they did not appear to diverge, until they 
were lost to our view beyond the crest of the hill. The hum 
and buzz, and, anon, the “ measured tread of marching men,” 
in the valley between us and Hamburgh, still continued. The 
leading files of a light infantry regiment now appeared, 
swinging along at a round trot, with their muskets poised in 
their right hands — no knapsacks on their backs. They ap- 
peared to follow the route of the group of mounted officers, 
until we could see a puff of white smoke, then another and a 
third from the field-pieces, followed by thudding reports, 
there being no high ground nor precipitous bank nor water 
in the neighbourhood to reflect the sound, and make it emu- 
late Jove’s thunder. At this, they struck across the fields, 
and forming behind the guns, lay down flat on their faces, 
where they were soon hid from our view by the wreaths of 
white smoke, as the sluggish morning breeze rolled it down 
the hill-side toward us. 


28 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ What the deuce can all this mean — is it a review ? ” said 
I, in my innocence. 

“ A reconnoissance in force,” groaned my friend. “ The 
Allied troops must be at hand — now, God help us ! ” 

The women, like frightened hares, paused to look up in 
their brother’s face, as he kept his eye steadily turned 
towards the ridge of the hill, and, when he involuntarily 
wrung his hands, they gave a loud scream, and ran off into 
the house. 

The breeze at this moment “ aside the shroud of battle 
cast,” and we heard a faint bugle-call, like an echo, wail in 
the distance, from beyond the hill. It was instantly answered 
by the loud, startling blare of a dozen of the light infantry 
bugles above us on the hill-side, and we could see them sud- 
denly start from their lair, and form; while between us and 
tne clearing morning sky, the cavalry, magnified into giants 
in the strong relief on the outline of the hill, were driven in 
straggling patrols, like chaff, over the summit — their sabres 
sparkling in the level sunbeams, and the reports of the red 
flashes of their pistols crackling down upon us. 

“ They are driven in on the infantry,” said Mr * * *. He 
was right — but the light battalion immediately charged over 
the hill, with a loud hurrah, after admitting the beaten horse 
through their intervals, who, however, to give the devils their 
due, formed again in an instant, under the shelter of the 
high ground. The artillery again opened their fire — the cav- 
alry once more advanced, and presently we could see nothing 
but the field-pieces, with their three separate groups of sol- 
diers standing quietly by them, — a sure proof that the ene- 
my’s pickets were now out of cannon-shot, and had been 
driven back on the main body, and that the reconnoissance 
was still advancing. 

What will not an habitual exposure to danger do, even with 
tender women? 

“ The French have advanced, so let us have our breakfast, 
Julia, my dear,” said Mr * * *, as we entered the house. 
“ The Allied forces would have been welcome, however; and 
surely, if they do come, they will respect our sufferings and 
helplessness.” 

The eldest sister, to whom he spake, shook her head, 
mournfully; but, nevertheless, betook herself to her task of 
making coffee. 

“ What rumbling and rattling is that ? ” said * * * to an 
old servant who had just entered the room. 

u Two waggons with wounded men, sir, have passed on- 
wards towards the town.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


29 


‘ Ah ! ” said mine host, in great bitterness of spirit. 

But allons, we proceeded to make the best use of our time 
’ ham, good— fish, excellent — eggs, fresh — coflee, superb — 
when we again heard the field-pieces above us open their fire, 
and in the intervals we could distinguish the distant rattle 
of musketry. Presently this rolling fire slackened, and, after 
a few scattering shots here and there, ceased altogether; but 
the cannon on the hill still continued to play. We were by 
this time all standing in a cluster in the porch of the villa, 
before which stood the tubs with the finny spoil of the fish- 
pond, on a small paddock of velvet grass, about forty yards 
square, separated from the high-road by a low ornamental 
fence of green basket-work, as already mentioned. The firing 
from the great guns increased, and every now and then I 
thought I heard a distant sound, as if the reports of the guns 
above us had been reflected from some precipitous bank. 

“ I did not know that there was any echo here,” said the 
youngest girl. 

“ Alas, J anette ! ” said her brother, “ I fear that is no 
echo ; ” and he put up his hand to his ear, and listened in 
breathless suspense. The sound was repeated. 

“ The Russian cannon replying to those on the hill ! ” said 
Mr * * *, with startling energy. “ God help us ! it can no 
longer be an affair of posts; the heads of the Allied columns 
must be in sight, for the French skirmishers are unquestion- 
ably driven in.” 

A French officer at this moment rattled past us down the 
road at speed, and vanished in the hollow, taking the direc- 
tion of the town. His hat fell off, as his horse swerved a lit- 
tle at the open gate as he passed. He never stopped to pick 
it up. Presently a round shot, with a loud ringing and hiss- 
ing sound, pitched over the hill, and knocked one of the fish- 
tubs close to us to pieces, scattering the poor fish all about 
the lawn. With the recklessness of a mere boy I dashed out, 
and was busy picking them up, when Mr * * * called to me 
to come back. 

u Let us go in and await what may befall ; I dread what 

the ty ” here he prudently checked himself, remembering 

no doubt, “ that a bird of the air might carry the matter,” — 
“ I dread what he may do, if they are really investing the 
place. At any rate, here, in the very arena where the strug- 
gle will doubtless be fiercest, we cannot abide. So go, my 
dearest sisters, and pack up whatever you may have most 
valuable or most necessary. Nay, no tears; and I will attend 
to our poor old father, and get the carriage ready, if, God 
help me, I dare use it.” 


30 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ But where, in the name of all that is fearful, shall we 
go?” said his second sister. “Not back to Hamburgh — not 
to endure another season of such deep degradation — not to be 

exposed to the O brother, you saw we all submitted to our 

fate without a murmur, and laboured cheerfully on the forti- 
fications, when compelled to do so by that inhuman monster 
Davoust, amidst the ribaldry of a licentious soldiery, merely 
because poor Janette had helped to embroider a standard for 
the brave Hanseatic Legion — you know how we bore this ” — 
here the sweet girl held out her delicate hands, galled by 
actual and unwonted labour — “ and many other indignities, 
until that awful night, when — No, brother, we shall await the 
arrival of the Russians, even should we see our once happy 
home converted into a field of battle; but into the city we 
shall not go.” 

“ Be it so, then, my dearest sister. — Wilhelm, put up the 
stuhl wagen .” 

He had scarcely returned into the breakfast-room, when 
the door opened, and the very handsome young officer, the 
aide-de-camp of the prince, whom I had seen the night I was 
carried before Davoust, entered, splashed up to the eyes, and 
much heated and excited. I noticed blood on the hilt of his 
sword. His orderly sat on his foaming steed, right opposite 
where I stood, wiping his bloody sabre on his horse’s mane. 
The women grew pale; but still they had presence of mind 
enough to do the honours with self-possession. The stranger 
wished us a good morning; and on being asked to sit down 
to breakfast, he unbuckled his sword, threw it from him with 
a clash on the floor, and then, with all the grace in the world, 
addressed himself to discuss the comestibles . He tried a 
slight approach to jesting now and then; but seeing the 
heaviness of heart which prevailed amongst the women, he, 
with the good-breeding of a man of the world, forbore to 
press his attentions. 

Breakfast being finished, and the ladies having retired, he 
rose, buckled on his sword again, drew on his gloves, and 
taking his hat in his hand, he advanced to the window, and 
desired his men to “ fall in.” 

“ Men ! — what men ? ” said poor Mr * * *. 

“ Why, the marshal has had a company of sapeurs for 
these three days back in the adjoining village — they are now 
here.” 

“Here!” exclaimed * * *; “what do the sappers here?” 
Two of the soldiers carried slow matches in their hands, 
while their muskets were slung at their backs. “ There is no 
mine to be sprung here ? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


31 


The young officer heard him with great politeness, but de- 
clined giving any answer. The next moment he turned 
towards the ladies, and was making himself as agreeable as 
time and circumstances would admit, when a shot came 
crashing through the roof, broke down the ceiling, and, 
knocking the flue of the stove to pieces, rebounded from the 
wall, and rolled harmlessly beneath the table. He was the 
only person who did not start, or evince any dread. He 
kicked the bullet out of the way, and merely cast his eyes 
upward and smiled. He then turned to poor * * *, who 
stood quite collected, but very pale, near where the stove had 
stood, and held out his hand to him. 

“ On my honour,” said the young soldier, “ it grieves me 
to the very heart ; but I must obey my orders. It is no longer 
an affair of posts; the enemy is pressing on us in force. The 
Allied columns are in sight; their cannon-shot have but now 
penetrated your roof; we have but driven in their pickets; 
very soon they will be here; and in the event of their ad- 
vance, my orders are to burn down this house and the neigh- 
bouring village.” 

A sudden flush rushed into Mr * * *’s face. “ Indeed ! 
does the prince really ” 

The young officer bowed, and with something more of 
sternness in his manner that he had yet used, he said, “ Mr 
* * *, I duly appreciate your situation, and respect your 
feelings; but the Prince of Eekmuhl is my superior officer; 
and under other circumstances ” — Here he slightly touched 
the hilt of his sword. 

“ For myself I don’t care,” said * * *, “ but what is to 
become of my sisters ? ” 

“ They must proceed to Hamburgh.” 

“ Very well — let me order the stuhl wagen, and give us, at 
all events, half an hour to move our valuables.” 

Here Mr * * * exchanged looks with his sisters. 

“ Certainly,” said the young officer ; “ and I will myself see 
you safe into the city.” 

Who says that eels cannot be made used to skinning? The 
poor girls continued their little preparations with an alacrity 
and presence of mind that truly surprised me. There was 
neither screaming nor fainting, and by the time the carriage 
was at the door, they, with two female domestics, were ready 
to mount. I cannot better describe their vehicle, than by 
comparing it to a canoe mounted on four wheels, connected 
by a long perch, with a coach-box at the bow, and three gig 
bodies hung athwart ships, or slung inside of the canoe, by 
leather thongs. At the moment we were starting, Mr * * * 


32 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


came close to me and whispered, “ Do you think your ship 
will still be in the river ? ” 

I answered that I made no doubt she was. 

“ But even if she be not,” said he, “ the Holstein bank is 
open to us. Any where but Hamburgh now” And the 
scalding tears ran down his cheeks. 

At this moment there was a bustle on the hill top, and 
presently the artillery began once more to play, while the 
musketry breezed up again in the distance. A mounted 
bugler rode half way down the hill, and sounded the recall. 
The young officer hesitated. The man waved his hand, and 
blew the advance. 

“ It must be for us — answer it.” His bugle did so. Bring 
the pitch, men — the flax — so now — break the windows, and 
let the air in — set the house on fire ; and, Sergeant Guido, re- 
main to prevent it being extinguished — I shall fire the vil- 
lage as we pass through.” 

He gave the word to face about; and, desiring the men to 
follow at the same swinging run with which the whole of the 
infantry had originally advanced, he spurred his horse 
against the hill, and soon disappeared. 

My host’s resolution seemed now taken. Turning to the 
sergeant — “ My good fellow, the reconnoissance will soon be 
returning; I shall precede it into the town.” 

The man, a fine vieux moustache , hesitated. 

My friend saw it, and hit him in a Frenchman’s most as- 
sailable quarter. 

“ The ladies, my good man — the ladies ! — You would not 
have them drive in pell-mell with the troops, exposed, most 
likely, to the fire of the Prussian advanced-guard, would 
you ? ” 

The man grounded his musket, and touched his cap — 
“Pass on.” 

Away we trundled, until, coming to a cross-road, we turned 
down towards the river; and at the angle we could see thick 
wreaths of smoke curling up into the air, shewing that the 
barbarous order had been but too effectually fulfilled. 

“What is that?” said * * * 

A horse, with his rider entangled, and dragged by the 
stirrup, passed us at full speed, leaving a long track of blood 
on the road. 

“Who is that?” 

The coachman drove on, and gave no answer; until, at a 
sharp turn, we came upon the bruised and now breathless 
body of the young officer, who had so recently obeyed the sav- 
age behests of his brutal commander. There was a musket- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


33 


shot right in the middle of his fine forehead, like a small blue 
point, with one or two heavy black drops of blood oozing 
from it. His pale features wore a mild and placid expres- 
sion, evincing that the numberless lacerations and bruises, 
which were evident through his torn uniform, had been in- 
flicted on a breathless corpse. 

The stuhl wagen had carried on for a mile farther or so, 
but the firing seemed to approximate, whereupon our host 
sung out, “ Fahrt zu , Schwager — Wir kommen nicht weiter 

The driver of the stuhl wagen sculled along until we ar- 
rived at the beautiful, at a mile off, but the beastly, when 
close to, village of Blankenese. 

When the voiture stopped in the village, there seemed to 
be a nonplusation , to coin a word for the nonce, between my 
friend and his sisters. They said something very sharply, 
and with a degree of determination that startled me. He 
gave no answer. Presently the Amazonian attack was renewed. 

“We shall go on board,” said they. 

“ Very well,” said he; “ but have patience, have patience! ” 

“ No, no. Wann wird man sich einschiffen mussen ? ” 

By this time we were in the heart of the village, and sur- 
rounded with a whole lot, forty at the least, of Blankenese 
boatmen. We were not long in selecting one of the fleetest- 
looking of those very fleet boats, when we all trundled on 
board ; and I now witnessed what struck me as being an awful 
sign of the times. The very coachman of the stuhl wagen, 
after conversing a moment with his master, returned to his 
team, tied the legs of the poor creatures as they stood, and 
then with a sharp knife cut their jugular veins through and 
through on the right side, having previously reined them up 
sharp to the left, so that, before starting, we could see three 
of the team, which consisted of four superb bays, level with 
the soil, and dead; the near wheeler only holding out on his 
fore-legs. 

We shoved off at eleven o’clock in the forenoon ; and after 
having twice been driven into creeks on the Holstein shore 
by bad weather, we arrived about two next morning safely 
on board the Torch, which immediately got under weigh for 
England. After my story had been told to the captain, I 
left my preserver, his father, and his sisters in his hands, and 
I need scarcely say that they had as hearty a welcome as the 
worthy old s soul could give them, and dived into the mid- 
shipmen’s berth for a morsel of comfort, where, in a twink- 
ling, I was far into the secrets of a pork-pie. 


34 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


CHAPTER II 

THE CRUISE OF THE TORCH 

“ Sleep, gentle sleep— 

Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast. 

Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; 

And in the visitation of the winds. 

Who take the ruffian billows by the top. 

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf’ning clamours in the slippery clouds. 

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes 
Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ? ” 

King Henry IV. Part II. 

Heligoland light — north and by west — so many leagues 
— wind baffling — weather hazy — Lady Passengers on deck 
for the first time. 

Arrived in the Downs — ordered by signal from the guard- 
ship to proceed to Portsmouth. Arrived at Spithead — or- 
dered to fit to receive a general officer, and six pieces of field 

artillery, and a Spanish Ecclesiastic, the Canon of . 

Plenty of great guns, at any rate— a regular park of artillery. 

Received General * * * * and his wife, and aide-de-camp 
and two poodle-dogs, one white man-servant, one black ditto, 

and the Canon of , and the six nine-pound field-pieces, 

and sailed for the Cove of Cork. 

It was blowing hard as we stood in for the Old Head of 
Kinsale — pilot boat breasting the foaming surge like a sea 
gull — “ Carrol Cove ” in her tiny mainsail — pilot jumped 
into the main channel — bottle of rum swung by the lead 
line into the boat — all very clever. 

Ran in, and anchored under Spike Island. A line-of -battle 
ship, three frigates, and a number of merchantmen at anchor 
— men-of-war lovely craft — bands playing — a good deal of 
the pomp and circumstance of war. Next forenoon, Mr Tree- 
nail, the second lieutenant, sent for me. 

“ Mr Cringle,” said he, “ you have an uncle in Cork, I 
believe? ” 

I said I had. 

“I am going there on duty to-night; I daresay, if you 
asked the captain to let you accompany me, he would do so.” 
This was too good an offer not to be taken advantage of. I 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 ^ 

plucked up courage, made my bow, asked leave, and got it; 
and the evening found my friend the lieutenant, and myself, 
after a ride of three hours, during which I, for one, had my 
bottom sheathing grievously rubbed, and a considerable both- 
eration at crossing the Ferry at Passage, safe in our inn at 
Cork. I soon found out that the object of my superior officer 
was to gain information amongst the crimp shops, where 
ten men who had run from one of the West Indiamen, wait- 
ing at Cove for convoy, were stowed away, but I was not let 
farther into the secret ; so I set out to pay my visit, and after 
passing a pleasant evening with my friends, Mr and Mrs Job 
Cringle, the lieutenant dropped in upon us about nine 
o’clock. He was heartily welcomed, and under the plea of 
our being obliged to return to the ship early next morning, 
we soon took leave, and returned to the inn. As I was turn- 
ing into the public room, the door was open, and I could see 
it full of blowsy-faced monsters, glimmering and jabbering, 
through the mist of hot brandy grog and gin twist; with 
poodle Benjamins, and great-coats, and cloaks of all sorts 
and sizes, steaming on their pegs, with Barcelonas and com- 
forters, and damp travelling caps of seal-skin, and blue 
cloth, and tartan, arranged above the same. Nevertheless, 
such a society in my juvenile estimation, during my short 
escapade from the middy’s berth, had its charms, and I was 
rolling in with a tolerable swagger, when Mr Treenail 
pinched my arm. 

“ Mr Cringle, come here, into my room.” 

From the way in which he spoke, I imagined, in my in- 
nocence, that his room was at my elbow; but no such thing 
— we had to ascend a long, and not over-clean staircase, to 
the fourth floor, before we were shewn into a miserable little 
double-bedded room. So soon as we had entered, the lieu- 
tenant shut the door. 

“ Tom,” said he, “ I have taken a fancy to you and there- 
fore I applied for leave to bring you with me; but I must 
expose you to some danger, and, I will allow, not altogether 
in a very creditable way either. You must enact the spy 
for a short space.” 

I did not like the notion, certainly, but I had little time 
for consideration. 

“ Here,” he continued — “ here is a bundle.” He threw it 
on the floor. “ You must rig in the clothes it contains, and 
make your way into the celebrated crimp-shop in the neigh- 
bourhood, and pick up all the information you can regarding 
the haunts of the pressable men at Cove, especially with re- 
gard to the ten seamen who have run from the West India- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


36 

man we left below. You know the Admiral has forbiddeil 
pressing at Cork, so you must contrive to frighten the blue 
jackets down to Cove, by representing yourself as an ap- 
prentice of one of the merchant vessels, who had run from 
his indentures, and that you had narrowly escaped from a 
press-gang this very night here 

I made no scruples, but forthwith arrayed myself in the 
slops contained in the bundle ; in a pair of shag trousers, red 
flannel shirt, coarse blue cloth jacket, and no waistcoat. 

“ Now,” said Mr Treenail, “ stick a quid of tobacco in 
your cheek, and take the cockade out of your hat; or stop, 
leave it, and ship this striped woollen night-cap — so — and 
come along with me.” 

We left the house, and walked half a mile down the Quay. 

E^esently W e arrived before a kind of low grog-shop — a 
bright lamp was flaring in the breeze at the door, one of the 
panes of the glass of it being broken. 

Before I entered, Mr Treenail took me to one side — 
“ Tom, Tom Cringle, you must go into this crimp-shop; pass 
yourself off for an apprentice of the Guava, bound for Trini- 
dad, the ship that arrived just as we started, and pick up all 
the knowledge you can regarding the whereabouts of the 
men, for we are, as you know, cruelly ill manned, and must 
replenish as we best may.” I entered the house, after having 
agreed to rejoin my superior officer so soon as I considered 
I had obtained my object. I rapped at the inner door, in 
which there was a small unglazed aperture cut, about four 
inches square; and I now, for the first time, perceived that a 
strong glare of light was cast into the lobby, where I stood, by 
a large argand with a brilliant reflector, that, like a magazine 
lantern, had been mortised into the bulkhead, at a height 
of about two feet above the door in which the spy-hole was 
cut. My first signal was not attended to; I rapped again, 
and looking round, I noticed Mr Treenail flitting backwards 
and forwards across the doorway, in the rain, his pale face 
and his sharp nose, with the sparkling drop at the end on’t, 
glancing in the light of the lamp. I heard a step within, and 
a very pretty face now appeared at the wicket. 

“ Who are you saking here, an’ please ye ? ” 

“No one in particular, my dear; but if you don’t let me 
in, I shall be lodged in jail before five minutes be over.” 

“ I can’t help that, young man,” said she ; “ but where are 
ye from, darling ? ” 

“Hush — I am run from the Guava, now lying at the 
Cove.” 

“Oh,” said my beauty, “come in;” and she opened the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


37 


door, but still kept it on the chain in such a way, that al- 
though, by bobbing, I creeped and slid in beneath it, yet a 
common-sized man could not possibly have squeezed himself 
through. The instant I entered, the door was once more 
banged to, and the next moment I was ushered into the 
kitchen, a room about fourteen feet square, with a well- 
sanded floor, a huge dresser on one side, and over against it 
a respectable show of pewter dishes in racks against the wall. 
There was a long stripe of a deal table in the middle of the 
room — but no tablecloth — at the bottom of which sat a large, 
bloated, brandy, or rather whisky-faced savage, dressed in a 
shabby great-coat of the hodden gray worn by the Irish 
peasantry, dirty swandown vest, and greasy corduroy 
breeches, worsted stockings, and well-patched shoes; he was 
smoking a long pipe. Around the table sat about a dozen 
seamen, from whose wet jackets and trowsers the heat of the 
blazing fire, that roared up the chimney, sent up a smoky 
steam that cast a halo round a lamp which depended from 
the roof, and hung down within two feet of the table, stink- 
ing abominably of coarse whale oil. They were, generally 
speaking, hardy, weather-beaten men, and the greater pro- 
portion half, or more than half drunk. When I entered, I 
walked up to the landlord. 

“Yo ho, my young un! whence and whither bound, my 
hearty ? ” 

“ The first don't signify much to you,” said I, “ seeing I 
have wherewithal in my locker to pay my shot ; and as to the 
second, of that hereafter; so, old boy, let's have some grog, 
and then say if you can ship me with one of them colliers 
that are lying alongside the quay ? ” 

“ My eye, what a lot of brass that small chap has ! ” grum- 
bled mine host. “ Why, my lad, we shall see to-morrow 
morning ; but you gammons so about the rhino, that we must 
prove you a bit; so, Kate, my dear,” — to the pretty girl who 

had let me in — “ score a pint of rum against Why, what 

is your name ? ” 

“ What's that to you?” rejoined T, “ let's have a drink, 
and don't doubt but the shiners shall be forthcoming.” 

“ Hurrah!” shouted the party, most of them now very 
tipsy. So the rum was produced forthwith, and as I lighted 
a pipe and filled a glass of swizzle, I struck in, “ Messmates, 
I hope you have all shipped ? ” 

“ No, we han't,” said some of them. 

“ Nor shall we be in any hurry, boy,” said others. 

“Do as you please, but I shall, as soon as I can, I know; 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


38 

and I recommend all of you making yourselves scarce to- 
night, and keeping a bright look-out.” 

“ Why, boy, why ? ” 

“ Simply because I have just escaped a press-gang, by 
bracing sharp up at the corner of the street, and shoving into 
this dark alley here.” 

This called forth another volley of oaths and unsavoury 
exclamations, and all was bustle and confusion, and packing 
up of bundles, and settling of reckonings. 

“ Where,” said one of the seamen, — “ where do you go to, 
my lad ? ” 

“ Why, if I can’t get shipped to-night, I shall trundle down 
to Cove immediately, so as to cross at Passage before day- 
light, and take my chance of shipping with some of the out- 
ward-bound that are to sail, if the wind holds, the day after 
to-morrow. There is to be no pressing when the blue Peter 
flies at the fore — and that was hoisted this afternoon, I know, 
and the foretopsail will be loose to-morrow.” 

“ D — n my wig, but the small chap is right,” roared one. 

“ I’ve a bloody great mind to go down with him,” stuttered 
another, after several unavailing attempts to weigh from the 
bench, where he had brought himself to anchor. 

“ Hurrah ! ” yelled a third, as he hugged me, and nearly 
suffocated me with his maudlin caresses, “ I trundles wid 
you too, my darling, by the piper ! ” 

“ Have with you, boy — have with you,” shouted half-a- 
dozen other voices, while each stuck his oaken twig through 
the handkerchief that held his bundle, and shouldered it, 
clapping his straw or tarpaulin hat, with a slap on the crown, 
on one side of his head, and staggering and swaying about 
under the influence of the poteen, and slapping his thigh, 
as he bent double, laughing like to split himself, till the 
water ran over his cheeks from his drunken half -shut eyes, 
while jets of tobacco-juice were squirting in all directions. 

I paid the reckoning, urging the party to proceed all the 
while, and indicating Pat Hoolan’s at the Cove as a good 
rendezvous; and promising to overtake them before they 
reached Passage, I parted company at the corner of the 
street, and rejoined the lieutenant. 

Next morning we spent in looking about the town — Cork 
is a fine town— contains seventy thousand inhabitants more 
or. less — safe in that — and three hundred thousand pigs, 
driven by herdsmen, with coarse gray great-coats. The pigs 
are not so handsome as those in England, where the legs are 
short, and tails curly; here the legs are long, the flanks sharp 
and thin, and tails long and straight. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


39 

All classes speak with a deuced brogue, and worship graven 
images; arrived at Cove to a late dinner — and here follows 
a great deal of nonsense of the same kind. 

By the time it was half-past ten o’clock, I was preparing 
to turn in, when the master at arms called down to me, — 

“ Mr. Cringle, you are wanted in the gunroom.” 

I put on my jacket again, and immediately proceeded 
thither, and on my way I noticed a group of seamen, stand- 
ing on the starboard gangway, dressed in pea-jackets, under 
which, by the light of a lantern, carried by one of them, I 
could see they were all armed with pistol and cutlass. They 
appeared in great glee, and as they made way for me, I could 
hear one fellow whisper, “ There goes the little beagle.” 
When I entered the gunroom, the first lieutenant, master, 
and purser, were sitting smoking and enjoying themselves 
over a glass of cold grog — the gunner taking the watch on 
deck — the doctor was piping any thing but mellifluously on 
the double flageolet, while the Spanish priest, and aide-de- 
camp to the general, were playing at chess, and wrangling 
in bad French. I could hear Mr Treenail rumbling and 
stumbling in his stateroom, as he accoutred himself in a 
jacket similar to those of the armed boat’s crew whom I had 
passed, and presently he stepped into the gunroom, armed 
also with cutlass and pistol. 

“Mr Cringle, get ready to go in the boat with me, and 
bring your arms with you.” 

I now knew whereabouts I was, and that my Cork friends 
were the quarry at which we aimed. I did as I was ordered, 
and we immediately pulled on shore, where, leaving two 
strong fellows in charge of the boat, with instructions to fire 
their pistols and shove ofl a couple of boat-lengths should 
any suspicious circumstance indicating an attack take place, 
we separated, like a pulk of Cossacks coming to the charge, 
but without the hourah , with orders to meet before Pat Doo- 
lan’s door, as speedily as our legs could carry us. We had 
landed about a cable’s length to the right of the high pre- 
cipitous bank — up which we stole in straggling parties — on 
which that abominable congregation of the most filthy huts 
ever pig grunted in is situated, called the Holy Ground. Pat 
Doolan’s domicile was in a little dirty lane, about the mid- 
dle of the village. Presently ten strapping fellows, includ- 
ing the lieutenant, were before the door, each man with his 
stretcher in his hand. It was a very tempestuous, although 
moonlight night, occasionally clear, with the moonbeams at 
one moment sparkling brightly in the small ripples on the 
filthy puddles before the door, and on the gem-like water- 


40 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


drops that hung from the eaves of the thatched roof, and 
lighting up the dark statue-like figures of the men, and cast- 
ing their long shadows strongly against the mud wall of the 
house; at another, a black cloud, as it flew across her disk, 
cast every thing into deep shade while the only noise we 
heard was the hoarse dashing of the distant surf, rising and 
falling on the fitful gusts of the breeze. We tried the door. 
It was fast. 

“ Surround the house, men, said the lieutenant in a whis- 
per. He rapped loudly. “ Pat Doolan, my man, open the 
door, will ye?” No answer. “ If you don’t, we shall make 
free to break it open, Patrick, dear.” 

All this while the light of a fire, or of candles, streamed 
through the joints of the door. The threat at length ap- 
peared to have the desired effect. A poor decrepid old man 
undid the bolt and let us in. “ Ohon a ree! Ohon a ree! 
What make you all this boder for — come you to help us to 
wake poor ould Kate there, and bring you the whisky wid 
you ? ” 

“ Old man, where is Pat Doolan ? ” said the lieutenant. 

“ Gone to borrow whisky, to wake ould Kate, there ; — the 
howling will begin whenever Mother Doncannon and Mis- 
thress Conolly come over from Middleton, and I look for 
dem every minute.” 

There was no vestige of any living thing in the miserable 
hovel, except the old fellow. On tw r o low trestles, in the 
middle of the floor, lay a coffin with the lid on, on the top 
of which was stretched the dead body of an old emaciated 
woman in her grave-clothes, the quality of which was much 
finer than one could have expected to have seen in the midst 
of the surrounding squalidness. The face of the corpse was 
uncovered, the hands were crossed on the breast, and there 
was a plate of salt on the stomach. 

An iron cresset, charged with coarse rancid oil, hung from 
the roof, the dull smoky red light flickering on the dead 
corpse, as the breeze streamed in through the door and num- 
berless chinks in the walls, making the cold, rigid, sharp 
features appear to move, and glimmer, and gibber as it were, 
from the changing shades. Close to the head, there was a small 
door opening into an apartment of some kind, but the coffin 
was placed so near it, that one could not pass between the 
body and the door. 

“ My good man,” said Treenail, to the solitary mourner, 
“ I must beg leave to remove the body a bit, and have the 
goodness to open that door.” 

“Door, yere honour! It’s no door o’ mine — and it’s not 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 41 

opening that same, that old Phil Carrol shall busy himself 
wid.” 

“ Carline,” said Mr Treenail, quick and sharp, “ remove 
the body.” It was done. 

“ Cruel heavy the old dame is, sir, for all her wasted ap- 
pearance,” said one of the men. 

The lieutenant now ranged the press-gang against the wall 
fronting the door, and stepping into the middle of the room, 
drew his pistol and cocked it. “ Messmates,” he sung out, 
as if addressing the skulkers in the other room, “ I know you 
are here — the house is surrounded — and unless you open 
that door now, by the powers, but I’ll fire slap into you.” 
There was a bustle, and a rumbling tumbling noise within. 
“ My lads, we are now sure of our game,” sung out Tree- 
nail, with great animation, “ Sling that clumsy bench there.” 
He pointed to an oaken form about eight feet long, and 
nearly three inches thick. To produce a two-inch rope, and 
junk it into three lengths, and rig the battering-ram, was 
the work of an instant. “ One, two, three,” — and bang the 
door flew open, and there were our men stowed away, each 
sitting on the top of his bag, as snug as could be, although 
looking very much like condemned thieves. We bound eight 
of them, thrusting a stretcher across their backs, under their 
arms, and, lashing the fins to the same by good stout lan- 
yards, we were proceeding to stump our prisoners off to the 
boat, when, with the innate devilry that I have inherited, I 
know not how, but the original sin of which has more than 
once nearly cost me my life, I said, without addressing my 
superior officer, or any one else, directly , — ■“ I should like 
now to scale my pistol through that coffin. If I miss, I can’t 
hurt the old woman; and an eyelet hole in the coffin itself, 
will only be an act of civility to the worms.” 

I looked towards my superior officer, who answered me 
with a knowing shake of the head. I advanced, while all 
was silent as death — the sharp click of the pistol lock now 
struck acutely on my own ear. I presented, when — crash 
— the lid of the coffin, old woman and all, was dashed off in 
an instant, the corpse flying up in the air, and then falling 
heavily on the floor, rolling over and over, while a tall 
handsome fellow, in his striped flannel shirt and blue trow- 
sers, with the sweat pouring down over his face in streams, 
sat up in the shell. 

"All right,” said Mr Treenail, "help him out of his 
berth.” 

He was pinioned like the rest, and forthwith we walked 
them all off to the beach. Ry this time there was an unusual 


42 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


bustle in the Holy Ground, and we could hear many an 
anathema, curses, not loud, but deep, ejaculated from many 
a half-opened door as we passed along. We reached the boat, 
and time it was we did so, for a number of stout fellows, who 
had followed us in a gradually increasing crowd, until they 
amounted to forty at the fewest, now nearly surrounded us, 
and kept closing in. As the last of us jumped into the boat, 
they made a rush, so that if we had not shoved off with the 
speed of light, I think it very likely that we should have 
been overpowered. However, we reached the ship in safety, 
and the day following we weighed, and stood out to sea with 
our convoy. 

It was a very large fleet, nearly three hundred sail of mer- 
chant vessels — and a noble sight truly. 

A line-of -battle ship led — and two frigates and three 
sloops of our class were stationed on the outskirts of the 
fleet, whipping them in as it were. We made Madeira in 
fourteen days, looked in, but did not anchor ; superb island — 
magnificent mountains — white town, — and all very fine, hut 
nothing particular happened for three weeks. One fine even- 
ing, (we had by this time progressed into the trades, and 
were within three hundred miles of Barbadoes,) the sun had 
set bright and clear, after a most beautiful day, and we were 
bowling along right before it, rolling like the very devil ; hut 
there was no moon, and although the stars sparkled bril- 
liantly, yet it was dark, and as we were the sternmost of the 
men of war, we had the task of whipping in the sluggards. 
It was my watch on deck. A gun from the commodore, who 
shewed a number of lights. “ What is that, Mr Kennedy ? ” 
said the captain to the old gunner. — “ The commodore has 
made the night signal for the sternmost ships to make more 
sail and close, sir.” We repeated the signal and stood on, 
hailing the dullest of the merchantmen in our neighbour- 
hood to make more sail, and firing a musket-shot now and 
then over the more distant of them. By and by we saw a 
large West Indiaman suddenly haul her wind and stand 
across our bows. 

“Forward there!” sung out Mr Splinter, “stand by to 
fire a shot at that fellow from the boat gun if he does not 
bear up. What can he be after? — Sergeant Armstrong,” — 
to a marine, who was standing close by him in the waist — • 
“get a musket, and fire over him.” 

It was done, and the ship immediately bore up on her 
course again; we now ranged alongside of him on his lar- 
board quarter. 

“ Ho, the ship, ahoy ! ” — “ Hillo ! ” was the reply. — “ Make 


\ 

TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 43 

more sail, sir, and run into the body of the fleet, or I shall 
fire into you; why don’t you, sir, keep in the wake of the 
commodore?” No answer. “What meant you by hauling 
your wind, just now, sir ? ” 

“ Yesh, yesh,” at length responded a voice from the mer- 
chantman. 

“ Something wrong here,” said Mr Splinter. “ Back your 
maintopsail, sir, and hoist a light at the peak; I shall send 
a boat on board of you. Boatswain’s mate, pipe away the 
crew of the jolly-boat.” We also hove to, and were in the 
act of lowering down the boat, when the officer rattled out 
— “ Keep all fast, with the boat ; I can’t comprehend that 
chap’s manoeuvres for the soul of me. He has not hove to.” 
Once more we were within pistol shot of him. “ Why don’t 
you heave to, sir ? ” All silent. 

Presently we could perceive a confusion and noise of 
struggling on board, and angry voices, as if people were try- 
ing to force their way up the hatches from below; and a 
heavy thumping on the deck, and a creaking of the blocks, and 
rattling of the cordage, while the mainyard was first braced 
one way, and then another, as if two parties were striving 
for the mastery. At length a voice hailed distinctly — “ We 

are captured by a ” A sudden sharp cry, and a splash 

overboard, told of some fearful deed. 

“We are taken by a privateer or pirate,” sung out another 
voice. This was followed by a heavy crunching blow, as 
when the spike of a butcher’s axe is driven through a bullock’s 
forehead deep into the brain. 

By this time all hands had been called, and the word had 
been passed to clear away two of the foremost carronades on 
the starboard side, and to load them with grape. 

“ On board there — get below, all you of the English crew, 
as I shall fire with grape,” sung out the captain. 

The hint was now taken. The ship at length came to the 
wind — we rounded to, under her lee — and an armed boat, 
with Mr Treenail, and myself, and sixteen men, with cut- 
lasses, were sent on board. 

We jumped on deck, and at the gangway, Mr Treenail 
stumbled, and fell over the dead body of a man, no doubt the 
one who had hailed last, with his skull cloven to the eyes, 
and a broken cutlass blade sticking in the gash." We were 
immediately accosted by the mate, who was lashed down to 
a ring-bolt close by the bits, with his hands tied at the wrists 
by sharp cords, so tightly that the blood was spouting from 
beneath his nails. 


44 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ We have been surprised by a privateer schooner, sir; the 
lieutenant of her, and several men, are now in the cabin.” 

“ Where are the rest of the crew ? ” 

“ All secured in the forecastle, except the second mate and 
boatswain, the men who hailed you just now; the last was 
knocked on the head, and the former was stabbed and thrown 
overboard.” 

We immediately released the men, eighteen in number, 
and armed them with boarding pikes. “ What vessel is that 
astern of us?” said Treenail to the mate. Before he could 
answer, a shot from the brig fired at the privateer shewed 
she was broad awake. Next moment Captain Deadeye 
hailed. “ Have you mastered a prize crew, Mr Treenail ? ” 
— “ Ay, ay, sir.” — “ Then bear up on your course, and keep 
two lights hoisted at your mizen-peak during the night, and 
blue Peter at the maintopsail yardarm when the day breaks ; 
I shall haul my wind after the suspicious sail in your wake.” 

Another shot, and another, from the brig — the time be- 
tween each flash and the report, increasing with the distance. 
By this the lieutenant had descended to the cabin, fol- 
lowed by his people, while the merchant crew once more took 
charge of the ship, crowding sail into the body of the fleet. 

I followed him close, pistol and cutlass in hand, and I shall 
never forget the scene that presented itself when I entered. 
The cabin was that of a vessel of five hundred tons, elegantly 
fitted up; the panels filled with crimson cloth, edged with 
gold mouldings, with superb damask hangings before the 
stern windows and the side berths, and brilliantly lighted 
up by two large swinging lamps hung from the deck above, 
which were reflected from, and multiplied in, several plate 
glass mirrors in the panels. In the recess, which in cold 
weather had been occupied by the stove, now stood a splen- 
did grand piano, the silk in the open work above the keys 
corresponding with the crimson cloth of the panels; it was 
open, a Leghorn bonnet with a green veil, a parasol, and two 
long white gloves, as if recently pulled off, lay on it, with the 
very mould of the hands in them. 

The rudder case was particularly beautiful ; it was a richly 
carved and gilded palm-tree, the stem painted white and 
interlaced with golden fretwork, like the lozenges of a pine- 
apple, while the leaves spread up and abroad on the roof. 

The table was laid for supper, with cold meat, and wine, 
and a profusion of silver things, all sparkling brightly: but 
it was in great disorder, wine spilt, and glasses broken, and 
dishes with meat upset, and knives, and forks, and spoons, 
scattered all about. She was evidently one of those London 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


45 


West Indiamen, on board of which I knew there was much 
splendour and great comfort. But, alas ! the hand of lawless 
violence had been there. The captain lay across the table, 
with his head hanging over the side of it next to us, and 
unable to help himself, with his hands tied behind his back, 
and a gag in his mouth ; his face purple from the blood run- 
ning to his head, and the white of his eyes turned up, while 
his loud stertorous breathing but too clearly indicated the 
rupture of a vessel on the brain. 

He was a stout portly man, and, although we released him 
on the instant, and had him bled, and threw water on his 
face, and did all we could for him, he never spoke after- 
wards and died in half an hour. 

Four gentlemanly-looking men were sitting at table, 
lashed .to their chairs, pale and trembling, while six of the 
most ruffian-looking scoundrels I ever beheld, stood on the 
opposite side of the table in a row fronting us, with the light 
from the lamps shining full on them. Three of them were 
small, but very square mulattoes ; one was a South American 
Indian, with the square high-boned visage, and long, lank, 
black glossy hair of his cast. These four had no clothing 
besides their trowsers, and stood with their arms folded, in 
all the calmness of desperate men, caught in the very fact of 
some horrible atrocity, which they knew shut out every hope 
of mercy. The two others were white Frenchmen, tall, 
bushy-whiskered, sallow desperadoes, but still, wonderful to 
relate, with, if I may so speak, the manners of gentlemen. 
One of them squinted, and had a hair-lip, which gave him a 
horrible expression. They were dressed in white trowsers 
and shirts, yellow silk sashes round their waists, and a sort 
of blue uniform jackets, blue Gascon caps, with the peaks, 
from each of which depended a large bullion tassel, hanging 
down on one side of their heads. The whole party had ap- 
parently made up their minds that resistance was vain, for 
their pistols and cutlasses, some of them bloody, had all been 
laid on the table, with the butts and handles towards us, con- 
trasting horribly with the glittering equipage of steel, and 
crystal, and silver things, on the snow-white damask table- 
cloth. They were immediately seized and ironed, to which 
they submitted in silence. We next released the passengers, 
and were overpowered with thanks, one dancing, one crying, 
one laughing, and another praying. But, merciful Heaven! 
what an object met our eyes! Drawing aside the curtain 
that concealed a sofa, fitted into a recess, there lay, more 
dead than alive, a tall and most beautiful girl, her head rest- 
ing on her left arm, her clothes disordered and torn, blood 


46 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


on her bosom, and foam on her mouth, with her long dark 
hair loose and dishevelled, and covering the upper part of her 
deadly pale face, through which her wild sparkling black 
eyes, protruding from their sockets, glanced and glared with 
tiie fire of a maniac’s, while her blue lips kept gibbering an 
incoherent prayer one moment, and the next imploring 
mercy, as if she had still been in the hands of those who 
knew not the name; and anon, a low hysterical laugh made 
our very blood freeze in our bosoms, which soon ended in a 
long dismal yell, as she rolled off the couch upon the hard 
deck, and lay in a dead faint. 

Alas the day! — a maniac she was from that hour. She 
was the only daughter of the murdered master of the ship, 
and never awoke, in her unclouded reason, to the fearful 
consciousness of her own dishonour and her parent’s death. 

The Torch captured the schooner, and we left the priva- 
teer’s men at Barbadoes to meet their reward, and several of 
the merchant sailors were turned over to the guardship, to 
prove the facts in the first instance, and to serve his Majesty 
as impressed men in the second, — but scrimp measure ,of 
justice to the poor ship’s crew. 

Anchored at Carlisle Bay, Barbadoes. — Town seemed 
built of cards — black faces — showy dresses of the negroes — 

dined at Mr C ’s — capital dinner — little breeze mill 

at the end of the room, that pumped a solution of saltpetre 
and water into a trough of tin, perforated with small holes, 
below which, and exposed to the breeze, were ranged the wine 
and liqueurs, all in cotton bags; the water then flowed into 
a well, where the pump was stepped, and thus was again 
pumped up and kept circulating. 

Landed the artillery, the soldiers, officers, and the Spanish 
Canon — discharged the whole battery. 

Next morning, weighed at day-dawn, with the trade for 
Jamaica, and soon lost sight of the bright blue waters of 
Carlisle Bay, and the smiling fields and tall cocoa-nut trees 
of the beautiful island. In a week after we arrived off the 
east end of Jamaica, and that same evening, in obedience 
to the orders of the admiral on the Windward Island station, 
we hove to in Bull Bay, in order to land despatches, and se- 
cure our tithe of the crews of the merchant-vessels bound 
for Kingston, and the ports to leeward, as they passed us. 
We had fallen in with a pilot canoe off Morant Bay with 
four negroes on board, who requested us to hoist in their 
boat, and take them all on board, as the pilot schooner, to 
which they belonged, had that morning bore up for Kings- 
ton, and left instructions to them to follow her in the first 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 4 7 

vessel appearing afterwards. We did so, and now, as it was 
getting dark, the captain came up to Mr Treenail. 

“ Why, Mr Treenail, I think we had better heave- to for 
the night, and in this case I shall want you to go in the 
cutter to Port Royal to deliver the despatches on board the 
Hag-ship.” 

“ I don’t think the admiral will be at Port Royal, sir,” 
responded the lieutenant ; “ and, if I might suggest, those 
black chaps have offered to take me ashore here on the Pal- 
isadoes , a narrow spit of land, not above one hundred yards 
across, that divides the harbour from the ocean, and to haul 
the canoe across, and take me to the agent’s house in Kings- 
ton, who will doubtless frank me up to the pen, where the 
admiral resides, and I shall thus deliver the letters, and be 
back again by day-dawn.” 

“Not a bad plan,” said old Deadeye; “put it in execution, 
and I will go below and get the despatches immediately.” 

The canoe was once more hoisted out; the three black fel- 
lows, the pilot of the ship continuing on board, jumped into 
her alongside. 

“ Had you not better take a couple of hands with you, Mr 
Treenail ? ” said the skipper. 

“ Why, no, sir, I don’t think I shall want them ; but if you 
will spare me Mr Cringle I will be obliged, in case I want 
any help.” 

We shoved off, and as the glowing sun dipped under Port- 
land Point, as the tongue of land that runs out about four 
miles to the southward, on the western side of Port Royal 
harbour, is called, we arrived within a hundred yards of the 
Palisadoes. The surf, at the particular spot we steered for, 
did not break on the shore in a rolling curling wave, as it 
usually does, but smoothed away under the lee of a small 
sandy promontory that ran out into the sea, about half a 
cable’s length to windward, and then slid up the smooth 
white sand, without breaking, in a deep clear green swell, 
for the space of twenty yards, gradually shoaling, the colour 
becoming lighter and lighter, until it frothed away in a shal- 
low white fringe, that buzzed as it receded back into the 
deep green sea, until it was again propelled forward by the 
succeeding billow. 

“I say, friend Bungo, how shall we manage? You don’t 
mean to swamp us in a shove through that surf, do you ? ” 
said Mr Treenail. 

“ No fear, massa, if you and toder leetle man-of-war buc- 
cra only keep dem seat when we rise on de crest of de swell 
dere.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


48 

We sat quiet enough. Treenail was coolness itself, and I 
aped him as well as I could. The loud murmur, increasing 
to a roar, of the sea, was trying enough as we approached, 
buoyed on the last long undulation. 

“ Now sit still, massa, bote.” 

We sank down into the trough, and presently were hove 
forwards with a smooth sliding motion up on the beach — 
until grit, grit, we stranded on the cream-coloured sand, high 
and dry. 

“ Now, jomp, massa, jomp.” 

We leapt with all our strength, and thereby toppled down 
on our noses; the sea receded, and before the next billow 
approached, we had run the canoe twenty yards beyond high 
water-mark. 

It was the work of a very few minutes to haul the canoe 
across the sand-bank, and to launch it once more in the pla- 
cid waters of the harbour of Kingston. We pulled across 
towards the town, until we landed at the bottom of Hanover 
Street; the lights from the cabin windows of the merchant- 
men glimmering as we passed, and the town only discernible 
from a solitary sparkle here and there. But the contrast 
when we landed was very striking. We had come through 
the darkness of the night in comparative quietness; and in 
two hours from the time we had left the old Torch, we were 
transferred from her orderly deck to the bustle of a crowded 
town. 

One of our crew undertook to be the guide to the agent’s 
house. We arrived before it. It was a large mansion, and 
we could see lights glimmering in the ground-floor; but it 
was gaily lit up aloft. The house itself stood back about 
twenty feet from the street, from which it was separated by 
an iron railing. 

We knocked at the outer-gate, but no one answered. At 
length our black guide found out a bell-pull, and presently 
the clang of a bell resounded throughout the mansion. Still 
no one answered. I pushed against the door, and found it 
was open, and Mr Treenail and myself immediately as- 
cended a flight of six marble steps, and stood in "the lower 
piazza, with the hall, or vestibule, before us. We entered. 
A very well-dressed brown woman, who was sitting at her 
work at a small table, along with two young girls of the same 
complexion, instantly rose to receive us. 

“ Beg pardon,” said Mr Treenail, “ pray, is this Mr ’s 

house ?” 

“ Yes, sir, it is.” 

“ Will you have the goodness to say if he be at home? ” ' 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 49 

“ Oh yes, sir, he is dere upon dinner wid company,” said 
the lady. 

“ Well,” continued the lieutenant, “ say to him, that an 
officer of his Majesty’s sloop Torch is below, with despatches 
for the admiral.” 

“Surely, sir, — surely,” the dark lady continued; — “Fol- 
low me, sir; and dat small gentleman, — [Thomas Cringle, 
Esquire, no -less !] — him will better follow me too.” 

We left the room, and turning to the right, landed in the 
lower piazza of the house, fronting the north. A large clumsy 
stair occupied the easternmost end, with a massive mahogany 
balustrade, but the whole affair below was very ill lighted. 
The brown lady preceded us; and, planting herself at the 
bottom of the staircase, began to shout to some one above — 

“Toby! — Toby! — buccra gentlemen arrive, Toby.” But 
no Toby responded to the call. 

“ My dear madam,” said Treenail, “ I have little time for 
ceremony. Pray usher us up into Mr ’s presence.” 

“ Den follow me, gentlemen, please.” 

Forthwith we all ascended the dark staircase until we 
reached the first landing-place, when we heard a noise as of 
two negroes wrangling on the steps above us. 

“ You rascal! ” sang out one, “ take dat; larn you for teal 
my wittal ! ” — then a sharp crack, as if he had smote the 
culprit across the pate; whereupon, like a shot, a black fel- 
low, in a handsome livery, trundled down, pursued by an- 
other servant with a large silver ladle in his hand, with 
which he was belabouring the fugitive over his flint-hard 
skull, right against our hostess, with the drumstick of a 
turkey in his hand, or rather in his mouth. 

“ Top, you tief ! — top, you tief ! — for me piece dat,” 
shouted the pursuer. 

“ You dam rascal! ” quoth the dame. But she had no time 
to utter another word, before the fugitive pitched, with all 
his weight, against her; and at the very moment another 
servant came trundling down with a large tray full of all 
kinds of meats — and I especially remember that two large 
crystal stands of jellies composed part of his load — so there 
we were regularly capsized, and caught all of a heap in the 
dark landing-place, half way up the stair; and down the 
other flight tumbled our guide, with Mr Treenail and my- 
self, and the two blackies on the top of her, rolling in our 
descent over, or rather into, another large mahogany tray 
which had just been carried out, with a tureen of turtle soup 
in it, and a dish of roast beef, and platef fills of land-crabs, 
and the Lord knows what all besides. 


5o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


The crash reached the ear of the landlord, who was seated 
at the head of his table in the upper piazza, a long gallery 
about fifty feet long by fourteen wide, and he immediately 
rose and ordered his butler to take a light. When he came 
down to ascertain the cause of the uproar, I shall never for- 
get the scene. 

There was, first of all, mine host, a remarkably neat per- 
sonage, standing on the polished mahogany stair, three steps 
above his servant, who was a very well-dressed respectable 
elderly negro, with a candle in each hand; and beneath him, 
on the landing-place, lay two trays of viands, broken tureens 
of soup, fragments of dishes, and fractured glasses, and a 
chaos of eatables and drinkables, and table gear scattered all 
about, amidst which lay scrambling my lieutenant and my- 
self, the brown housekeeper, and the two negro servants, all 
more or less covered with gravy and wine dregs. However, 
after a good laugh, we gathered ourselves up, and at length 
we were ushered on the scene. Mine host, after stifling his 
laughter the best way he could, again sat down at the head 
of his table, sparkling with crystal and waxlights, while a 
superb lamp hung overhead. The company was composed 
chiefly of naval and military men, but there was also a sprink- 
ling of civilians, or muftees, to use a West India expres- 
sion. Most of them rose as we entered, and after they had 
taken a glass of wine, and had their laugh at our mishap, 
our landlord retired to one side with Mr Treenail, while I, 
poor little middy as I was, remained standing at the end of 
the room, close to the head of the stairs. The gentleman 
who sat at the foot of the table had his back towards me, 
and was not at first aware of my presence. But the guest at 
his right hand, a happy-looking, red-faced, well-dressed man, 
soon drew his attention towards me. The party to whom 
I was thus indebted seemed a very jovial-looking personage, 
and appeared to be well known to all hands, and indeed the 
life of the party, for, like Falstaff, he was not only witty in 
himself, but the cause of wit in others. 

The gentleman to whom he had pointed me out immedi- 
ately rose, made his bow, ordered a chair, and made room 
for me beside himself, where the moment it was known that 
we were direct from home, such a volley of questions was 
fired off at me, that I did not know which to answer first. 
At length, after Treenail had taken a glass or two of wine, 
the agent started him off to the admiral’s pen in his own 
gig, and I was desired to stay where I was until he returned. 

The whole party seemed very happy, my boon ally was 
fun itself, and I was much entertained with the mess he 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


5i 

made when any of the foreigners at table addressed him in 
French or Spanish. I was particularly struck with a small, 
thin, dark Spaniard, who told very feelingly how the night 
before, on returning home from a party to his own lodgings, 
on passing through the piazza, he stumbled against some- 
thing heavy that lay in his grass-hammock, which usually 
hung there. He called for a light, when, to his horror, he 
found the body of his old and faithful valet lying in it, dead and 
cold, with a knife sticking under his fifth rib — no doubt in- 
tended for his master. The speaker was Bolivar. About 
midnight, Mr Treenail returned, we shook hands with Mr 

, and once more shoved off; and, guided by the lights 

shewn on board the Torch, we were safe home again by three 
in the morning, when we immediately made sail, and noth- 
ing particular happened until we arrived within a day’s sail 
of New Providence. It seemed, that about a week before, a 
large American brig, bound from Havana to Boston, had 
been captured in this very channel by one of our men-of-war 
schooners, and carried into Nassau; out of which port, for 
their own security, the authorities had fitted a small 
schooner, carrying six guns and twenty-four men. She was 
commanded by a very gallant fellow — there is no disputing 
that — and he must needs emulate the conduct of the officer 
who had made the capture — for in a fine clear night, when all 
the officers were below rummaging in their kits for the kill- 
ing things they should array themselves in on the morrow, 
so as to smite the Fair of New Providence to the heart at a 
blow — Whiss — a shot flew over our mast-head. 

“ A small schooner lying- to right a-head, sir,” sung out 
the boatswain from the forecastle. 

Before we could beat to quarters, another sung between 
our masts. We kept steadily on our course, and as we ap- 
proached our pigmy antagonist, he bore up. Presently we 
were alongside of him. 

“ Heave-to,” hailed the strange sail ; “ heave-to, or I’ll 
sink you.” 

The devil you will, you midge, thought I. 

The captain took the trumpet — “ Schooner, a-hoy” — no an- 
swer — “ D — n your blood, sir, if you don’t let every thing go 
by the run this instant, I’ll fire a broadside. Strike, sir, to 
his Britannic Majesty’s sloop Torch.” 

The poor fellow commanding the schooner had by this 
time found out his mistake, and immediately came on board, 
where, instead of being lauded for his gallantry, I am sorry 
to say he was roundly rated for his want of discernment in 


52 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


mistaking his Majesty’s cruiser for a Yankee merchantman. 
Next forenoon we arrived at Nassau. 

In a week after we again sailed for Bermuda, having taken 
on board ten American skippers, and several other Yankees, 
as prisoners of war. 

For the first three days after we cleared the Passages, we 
had fine weather — wind at east south-east; but after that 
it came on to blow from the north-west, and so continued 
without intermission during the whole of the passage to Ber- 
muda. On the fourth morning after we left Nassau, we 
descried a sail in the south-east quarter, and immediately 
made sail in chase." We overhauled her about noon; she 
hove-to, after being fired at repeatedly; and, on boarding 
her, we found she was a Swede from Charleston, bound to 
Havre-de-Grace. All the letters we could find on board were 
very unceremoniously broken open, and nothing having 
transpired that could identify the cargo as enemy’s property, 
we were bundling over the side, when a nautical-looking sub- 
ject, who had attracted my attention from the first, put in 
his oar. 

“ Lieutenant,” said he, “ will you allow me to put this bar- 
rel of New York apples into the boat as a present to Captain 
Deadeye, from Captain ***of the United States navy?” 

Mr Treenail bowed, and said he would; and we shoved 
off and got on board again, and now there was the devil to 
pay, from the perplexity old Deadeye was thrown into, as 
to whether, here in the heat of the American war, he was 
bound to take this American captain prisoner or not. I was 
no party to the councils of my superiors, of course, but the 
foreign ship was finally allowed to continue her course. 

The next day I had the forenoon watch; the weather had 
lulled unexpectedly, nor was there much sea, and the deck 
was all alive, to take advantage of the fine blink, when the 
man at the mast-head sung out — “ Breakers right a-head, 
sir.” 

“ Breakers ! ” said Mr Splinter, in great astonishment. 
“ Breakers! — why the man must be mad — I say, Jen- 
kins ” 

“ Breakers close under the bows,” sung out the boatswain 
from forward. 

“ The devil,” quoth Splinter, and he ran along the gang- 
way, and ascended the forecastle, while I kept close to his 
heels. We looked out a-head, and there we certainly did see 
a splashing, and boiling, and white foaming of the ocean, 
that unquestionably looked very like breakers. Gradually, 
this splashing and foaming appearance took a circular 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


53 

whisking shape, as if the clear green sea, for a space of a 
hundred yards in diameter, had been stirred about by a gi- 
gantic invisible spurtle, until every thing hissed again; and 
the curious part of it was, that the agitation of the water 
seemed to keep a-head of us, as if the breeze which impelled 
us had also floated it onwards. At length the whirling circle 
of white foam ascended higher and higher, and then grad- 
ually contracted itself into a spinning black tube, which 
wavered about, for all the world like a gigantic loch-leech, 
held by the tail between the finger and thumb, while it was 
poking its vast snout about in the clouds in search of a spot 
to fasten on. 

“ Is the boat gun on the forecastle loaded ? ” said Captain 
Deadeye. 

“It is, sir.” 

“ Then luff a bit — that will do — fire.” 

The gun was discharged, and down rushed the black 
wavering pillar in a watery avalanche, and in a minute after 
the dark heaving billows rolled over the spot whereout it 
arose, as if no such thing had ever been. 

This said troubling of the waters was neither more nor less 
than a waterspout, which again is neither more nor less than 
a whirlwind at sea, which gradually whisks the water round 
and round, and up and up, as you see straws so raised, until 
it reaches a certain height, when it invariably breaks. Be- 
fore this, I had thought that a waterspout was created by 
some next to supernatural exertion of the power of the 
Deity, in order to suck up water into the clouds, that they, 
like the wine-skins in Spain, might be filled with rain. 

The morning after, the weather was clear and beautiful, 
although the wind blew half a gale. Nothing particular hap- 
pened until about seven o’clock in the evening. I had been 
invited to dine with the gunroom officers this day, and every 
thing was going on smooth and comfortable, when Mr 
Splinter spoke. — “ I say, master, don’t you smell gunpow- 
der ? ” 

“ Yes, I do,” said the little master, “ or something deuced 
like it.” 

To explain the particular comfort of our position, it may 
be right to mention that the magazine of a brig sloop is ex- 
actly under the gunroom. Three of the American skippers 
had been quartered on the gunroom mess, and they were all 
at table. Snuff, snuff, smelled one, and another sniffled, — • 
“ Gunpowder, I guess, and in a state of ignition.” 

“ Will you not send for the gunner, sir? ” said the third. 

Splinter did not like it, I saw, and this quailed me. 


54 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

The captain’s bell rang. “ What smell of brimstone is that, 
steward ? ” 

“ I really can’t tell,” said the man, trembling from head to 
foot ; “ Mr Splinter has sent for the gunner, sir.” 

“ The devil ! ” said Deadeye, as he hurried on deck. We all 
followed. A search was made. 

“ Some matches have < aught in the magazine,” said one. 

“We shall be up and away like sky-rockets,” said another. 

Several of the American masters ran out on the jib-boom, 
coveting the temporary security of being so far removed 
from the seat of the expected explosion, and all was alarm 
and confusion, until it was ascertained that two of the boys, 
little skylarking vagabonds, had stolen some pistol cartridges, 
and had been making lightning, as it is called, by holding a 
lighted candle between the fingers, and putting some loose 
powder into the palm of the hand, and then chucking it up 
into the flame. They got a sound flogging, on a very un- 
poetical part of their corpuses, and once more the ship sub- 
sided into her usual orderly discipline. The northwester 
still continued, with a clear blue sky, without a cloud over- 
head by day, and a bright cold moon by night. It blew so 
hard for the three succeeding days, that we could not carry 
more than close reefed topsails to it, and a reefed foresail. 
Indeed, towards six bells in the forenoon watch of the third 
day, it came thundering down with such violence, and the 
sea increased so much, that we had to hand the foretopsail. 

This was by no means an easy job. “ Ease her a bit,” said 
the first lieutenant, — “ there — shake the wind out of her sails 

for' a moment, until the men get the canvass in” 

whirl, a poor fellow pitched off the lee foreyaa'darm into the 
sea. “ Up with the helm — heave him the bight of a rope.” 
We kept away, but all was confusion, until an American mid- 
shipman, one of the prisoners on board, hove the bight of a 
rope at him. The man got it under his arms, and after haul- 
ing him along for a hundred yards at the least — and one may 
judge of the velocity with which he was dragged through the 
water, by the fact that it took the united strain of ten power- 
ful men to get him in — he was brought safely on board, pale 
and blue, when we found that the running of the rope had 
crushed in his broad chest, below his arms, as if it had been 
a girl’s waist, . indenting the very muscles of it and of his 
back half an inch deep. He had to be bled before he could 
breathe, and it was an hour before the circulation could be 
restored, bv the joint exertions of the surgeon and gunroom 
steward, chafing him with spirits and camphor, after he had 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 55 

been stripped and stowed away between the blankets in his 
hammock. 

The same afternoon we fell in with a small prize to the 
squadron in the Chesapeake, a dismantled schooner, manned 
by a prize crew of a midshipman and six men. She had a sig- 
nal of distress, an American ensign, with the union down, 
hoisted on the jury-mast, across which there was rigged a 
solitary lug-sail. It was blowing so hard that we had some 
difficulty in boarding her, when we found she was a Balti- 
more pilot-boat-built schooner, of about 70 tons burden, laden 
with flour, and bound for Bermuda. But three days before, 
in a sudden squall, they had carried away both masts short 
by the board, and the only spar which they had been able to 
rig, was a spare topmast which they had jammed into one of 
the pumps — fortunately she was as tight as a bottle — and 
stayed it the best way they could. The captain offered to 
take the little fellow who had charge of her, and his crew and 
cargo, on board, and then scuttle her; but no — all he wanted 
was a cask of water and some biscuit ; and having had a glass 
of grog, he trundled over the side again, and returned to his 
desolate command. However, he afterwards brought his 
prize safe into Bermuda. 

The weather still continued very rough, but we saw noth- 
ing until the second evening after this. The forenoon had 
been even more boisterous than any of the preceding, and we 
were all fagged enough with “ make sail,” and “ shorten sail,” 
and “ all hands,” the whole day through ; and as the night 
fell, I found myself for the fourth time, in the maintop. The 
men had just lain in from the maintopsail yard, when we 
heard the watch called on deck, — “ Starboard watch, ahoy,” — 
which was a cheery sound to us of the larboard, who were 
thus released from duty on deck, and allowed to go below. 

The men were scrambling down the weather shrouds, and 
I was preparing to follow them, when I jammed my left foot 
in the grating of the top, and capsized on my nose. I had 
been up nearly the whole of the previous night, and on deck 
the whole of the day, and actively employed too, as during 
the greater part of it it blew a gale. I stooped down in some 
pain, to see what had bolted me to the grating; but I had 
no sooner extricated my foot, than, over-worked and over- 
fatigued as I was, I fell over in the soundest sleep that ever 
I have enjoyed before or since, the back of my neck resting 
on a coil of rope, so that my head hung down within it. 

The rain all this time was beating on me, and I was 
drenched to the skin. I must have slept for four hours or so, 
when I was awakened by a rough thump on the side from 


56 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the stumbling foot of the captain of the top, the word having 
been passed to shake a reef out of the topsails, the wind hav- 
ing rather suddenly gone down. It was done; and now 
broad awake, I determined not to be caught napping again, 
so I descended, and swung myself in on deck out of the main 
rigging, just as Mr. Treenail was mustering the crew at 
eight bells. When I landed on the quarterdeck, there he stood 
abaft the binnacle, with the light shining on his face, his 
glazed hat glancing, and the rain-drop sparkling at the brim 
of it. He had noticed me the moment I descended. 

“ Heyday, Master Cringle, you are surely out of your 
watch. Why, what are you doing here, eh ? ” 

I stepped up to him, and told him the truth, that, being 
over-fatigued, I had fallen asleep in the top. 

“ Well, well, boy,” said he, “ never mind, go below, and 
turn in; if you don’t take your rest, you never will be a 
sailor.” 

“But what do you see aloft?” glancing his eye upwards, 
and all the crew on deck, as I passed them, looked anxiously 
up also amongst the rigging, as if wondering what I saw 
there, for I had been so chilled in my snooze, that my neck, 
from resting in the cold on the coil of rope, had become 
stiffened and rigid to an intolerable degree; and although, 
when I first came on deck, I had, by a strong exertion, 
brought my caput to its proper bearings, yet the moment I 
was dismissed by my superior officer, I for my own comfort 
was glad to conform to the contraction of the muscle, 
whereby I once more staved along the deck, glowering up 
into the heavens, as if I had seen some wonderful sight there. 

“What do you see aloft?” repeated Mr. Treenail, while 
the crew, greatly puzzled, continued to follow my eyes, as 
they thought, and to stare up into the rigging. 

“ Why, sir, I have thereby got a stiff neck — that’s all, sir.” 

“ Go and turn in at once, my good boy — make haste, now — 
tell our steward to give you a glass of hot grog, and mind 
your hand that you don’t get sick.” 

I did as I was desired, swallowed the grog, and turned in; 
but I could not have been in bed above an hour, when the 
drum beat to quarters, and I had once more to bundle out on 
the cold wet deck, where I found all excitement. At the 
time I speak of, we had been beaten by the Americans in 
several actions of single ships, and our discipline improved 
in proportion as we came to learn by sad experience that the 
enemy was not to be undervalued. I found that there was a 
ship in sight, right a-head of us — apparently carrying all 
sail. A group oi officers were on the forecastle with night- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


57 


glasses, the whole crew being stationed in dark clusters 
round the guns at quarters. Several of the American skip- 
pers were forward amongst us, and they were of opinion that 
the chase was a man-of-war, although our own people seemed 
to doubt this. One of the skippers insisted that she was the 
Hornet, from the unusual shortness of her lower masts, and 
the immense squareness of her yards. But the puzzle was, if 
it were the Hornet, why she did not shorten sail. Still this 
might be accounted for, by her either wishing to make out 
what we were before she engaged us, or she might be clearing 
for action. At this moment a whole cloud of studdingsails 
were blown from the yards as if the booms had been carrots ; 
and to prove that the chase was keeping a bright look-out, she 
immediately kept away, and finally bore up dead before the 
wind, under the impression, no doubt, that she would draw 
a-head of us, from her gear being entire, before we could rig 
our light sails again. 

And so she did for a time, but at length we got within gun- 
shot. The American masters were now ordered below, the 
hatches were clapped on, and the word passed to see all clear. 
Our shot was by this time flying over and over her, and it 
was evident she was not a man-of-war. We peppered away — 
she could not even be a privateer; we were close under her 
lee-quarter, and yet she had never fired a shot; and her 
large swaggering Yankee ensign was now run up to the peak, 
only to be hauled down the next moment. Hurrah ! a largo 
cotton ship, from Charlestown to Bourdeaux, prize to H.M.S. 
Torch. 

She was taken possession of, and proved to he the Natches, 
of four hundred tons burden, fully loaded with cotton. 

By the time we got the crew on board, and the second lieu- 
tenant, with a prize crew of fifteen men, had taken charge, 
the weather began to lour again, nevertheless we took the 
prize in tow, and continued on our voyage for the next three 
days, without any thing particular happening. It was the 
middle watch, an,d I was sound asleep, when I was startled 
by a violent jerking of my hammock, and a cry “ that the 
brig was amongst the breakers.” I ran on deck in my shirt, 
where I found all hands, and a scene of confusion such as I 
never had witnessed before. The gale had increased, yet the 
prize had not been cast off, and the consequence was, that by 
some mismanagement or carelessness, the swag of the large 
ship had suddenly hove the brig in the wind, and taken the 
sails a-back. We accordingly fetched stern way, and ran 
foul of the prize, and there we were, in a heavy sea, with our 
stern grinding against the cotton ship’s high quarter. 


58 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


The mainboom, by the first rasp that took place after I 
came on deck, was broken short off, and nearly twelve feet 
of it hove right in over the taffrel; the vessels then closed, 
and the next rub ground off the ship’s mizen channel as clean 
as if it had been sawed away. Officers shouting, men swear- 
ing, rigging cracking, the vessels crashing and thumping 
together, I thought we were gone, when the first lieutenant 
seized his trumpet — “ Silence, men ; hold your tongues, you 
cowards, and mind the word of command ! ” 

The effect was magical. — “ Brace round the foreyard ; 
round with it — set the jib — that’s it — fore-topmast staysail — 
haul — never mind if the gale takes it out of the bolt rope ” — 
a thundering flap, and away it flew in truth down to leeward, 
like a puff of white smoke. — “ Never mind, men, the jib 
stands. Belay all that — down with the helm, now — don’t you 
see she has stern way yet ? Zounds ! we shall be smashed to 
atoms if you don’t mind your hands, you lubbers — main-top- 
sail sheets let fly — there she pays off, and has headway once 
more, that’s it — right your helm now — never mind his 
spanker-boom, the fore-stay will stand it — there — up with 
helm, sir — we have cleared him — hurrah ! ” — And a near 
thing it was too, but we soon had every thing snug; and al- 
though the gale continued without any intermission for ten 
days, at length we ran in and anchored with our prize in Five 
Fathom Hole, off the entrance to St George’s Harbour. 

It was lucky for us that we got to anchor at the time we 
did, for that same afternoon, one of the most tremendous 
gales of wind from the westward came on that I ever saw. 
Fortunately it was steady and did not veer about, and hav- 
ing good ground-tackle down, we rode it out well enough. 
The effect was very uncommon; the wind was howling over 
our mast-heads, and amongst the cedar bushes on the cliffs 
above, while on deck it was nearly calm, and there was very 
little swell, being a weather shore ; but half a mile out at sea 
all was white foam, and the tumbling waves seemed to meet 
from north and south, leaving a space of smooth water under 
the lee of the island, shaped like the tail of a comet, tapering 
away, and gradually roughening and becoming more stormy, 
until the roaring billows once more owned allegiance to the 
genius of the storm. 

There we rode, with three anchors a-head, in safety 
through the night; and next day, availing of a temporary 
lull, we ran up, and anchored off the Tanks. Three days 
after this, the American frigate President was brought in by 
the Endymion, and the rest of the squadron. 

I went on board, in common with every officer in the fleet. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


59 


and certainly I never saw a more superb vessel ; her scantling 
was that of a seventy-four, and she appeared to have been 
fitted with great care. I got a week’s leave at this time, and, 
as I had letters to several families, I contrived to spend my 
time pleasantly enough. 

Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a cluster of islands in 
the middle of the Atlantic. There are Lord knows how many 
of them, but the beauty of the little straits and creeks which 
divide them, no man can describe who has not seen them. 
The town of Saint George’s, for instance, looks as if the 
houses w r ere cut out of chalk; and one evening the family 
where I was on a visit proceeded to the main island, Hamil- 
ton, to attend a ball there. We had to cross three ferries, al- 
though the 'distance was not above nine miles, if so far. The 
’Mudian women are unquestionably beautiful — so thought 
Thomas Moore, a tolerable judge, before me. By the by, 
touching this ’Mudian ball, it was a very gay affair — the 
women pleasant and beautiful; but all the men, when they 
speak, or are spoken to, shut one eye and spit; — a lucid and 
succinct description of a community. 

The second day of my sojourn was fine — the first fine day 
since our arrival — and with several young ladies of the fam- 
ily, I was prowling through the cedar wood above St 
George’s, when a dark good-looking man passed us; he was 
dressed in tight worsted net pantaloons and Hessian boots, 
and wore a blue frock-coat and two large epaulets, with rich 
French bullion, and a round hat. On passing, he touched his 
hat with much grace, and in the evening I met him in so- 
ciety. It was Commodore Decatur. He was very much a 
Frenchman in manner, or, I should rather say, in look, for 
although very well bred, he, for one ingredient, by no means 
possessed a Frenchman’s volubility; still, he was an exceed- 
ingly agreeable and very handsome man. 

The following day we spent in a pleasure cruise amongst 
the three hundred and sixty-five islands, many of them not 
above an acre in extent — fancy an island of an acre in ex- 
tent! — with a solitary house, a small garden, a red-skinned 
family, a piggery, and all around clear deep pellucid water. 
None of the islands, or islets, rise to any great height, but 
they all shoot precipitously out of the water, as if the whole 
group had originally been one huge platform of rock, with 
numberless grooves subsequently chiselled out in it by art. 

We had to wind our way amongst these manifold small 
channels for two hours, before we reached the gentleman’s 
house where we had been invited to dine ; at length, on turn- 
ing a corner, with both lateen sails drawing beautifully, we 


6o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ran bump on a shoal ; there was no danger, and knowing that 
the ’Mudians were capital sailors, I sat still. Not so Captain 

K , a round plump little homo , — “ Shove her off, my boys, 

shove her off.” She would not move, and thereupon he in a 
fever of gallantry jumped overboard up to the waist in full 
fig; and one of the men following his example, we were soon 
afloat. The ladies applauded, and the captain sat in his wet 
breaks for the rest of the voyage, in all the consciousness of 
being considered a hero. Ducks and onions are the grand 
staple of Bermuda, but there was a fearful dearth of both at 
the time I speak of; a knot of young West India merchants, 
who, with heavy purses and large credits on England, had at 
this time domiciled themselves in St George’s, to batten on 
the spoils of poor Jonathan, having monopolized all the good 
things of the place. I happened to be acquainted with one of 
them, and thereby had less reason to complain; but many a 
poor fellow, sent ashore on duty, had to put up with but 
Lenten fare at the taverns. At length, having refitted, we 
sailed, in company with the Rayo frigate, with a convoy of 
three transports, freighted with a regiment for New Orleans, 
and several merchantmen, bound for the West Indies. 

“ The still vexed Bermoothes ” — I arrived at them in a 
gale of wind, and I sailed from them in a gale of wind. What 
the climate may be in the summer I don’t know; but during 
the time I was there, it was one storm after another. 

We sailed in the evening with the moon at full, and the 
wind at west-north-west. So soon as we got from under the lee 
of the land, the breeze struck us, and it came on to blow like 
thunder, so that we were all soon reduced to our storm stay- 
sails ; and there we were, transports, merchantmen, and men- 
of-war, rising on the mountainous billows one moment, and 
the next losing sight of every thing but the water and sky in 
the deep trough of the sea, while the seething foam was 
blown over us in showers from the curling manes of the roar- 
ing waves. But overhead, all this while, it was as clear as a 
lovely winter moon could make it, and the stars shone 
brightly in the deep blue sky; there was not even a thin 
fleecy shred of cloud racking across the moon’s disk. Oh, the 
glories of a northwester! 

But the devil seize such glory! Glory, indeed! with a fleet 
of transports, and a regiment of soldiers on board! Glory! 
why, I daresay five hundred rank and file, at the fewest, were 
all cascading at one and the same moment, — a thousand poor 
fellows turned outside in, like so many pairs of old stockings. 
Any glory in that? But to proceed. 

Next morning the gale still continued, and when the day 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


61 


broke, there was the frigate standing across our bows, rolling 
ana pitching, as she tore her way through the boiling sea, un- 
der a close-reefed main topsail and reefed foresail, with top- 
gallant-yards and royal masts, and every thing that could be 
struck with safety in war time, down on deck. There she lay 
with her clear black bends, and bright white streak, and long 
tier of cannon on the maindeck, and the carronades on the 
quarterdeck and forecastle grinning through the ports in the 
black bulwarks, while the white hammocks, carefully covered 
by the hammock-cloths, crowned the defences of the gallant 
frigate fore and aft, as she delved through the green surge, — 
one minute rolling and rising on the curling white crest of a 
mountainous sea, amidst a hissing snow-storm of spray, with 
her bright copper glancing from stem to stern, and her scanty 
white canvass swelling aloft, and twenty feet of her keel for- 
ward occasionally hove into the air clean out of the water, 
as if she had been a sea-bird rushing to take wing, — and the 
next, sinking entirely out of sight, hull, masts, and rigging, 
behind an intervening sea, that rose in hoarse thunder be- 
tween us, threatening to overwhelm both us and her. As for 
the transports, the largest of the three had lost her fore-top- 
mast, and had bore up under her foresail; another was also 
scudding under a close-reefed fore-topsail; but the third or 
head-quarter ship was still lying to to windward, under her 
storm stay-sails. None of the merchant vessels were to be 
seen, having been compelled to bear up in the night, and to 
run before it under bare poles. 

At length, as the sun rose, we got before the wind, and it 
soon moderated so far, that we could carry reefed topsails 
and foresail ; and away we all bowled, with a clear, deep, cold, 
blue sky, and a bright sun overhead, and a stormy leaden- 
coloured ocean, with whitish green-crested billows, below. 
The sea continued to go down, and the wind to slacken, until 
the afternoon, when the commodore made the signal for the 
Torch to send a boat’s crew, the instant it could be done with 
safety, on board the dismasted ship, to assist in repairing 
damages, and in getting up a jury-foretopmast. 

The damaged ship was at this time on our weather-quar- 
ter; we accordingly handed the fore-topsail, and presently 
she was alongside. We hailed her, that we intended to. send a 
boat on board, and desired her to heave-to, as we did, and 
presently she rounded to under our lee. One of the quarter- 
boats was manned, with three of the carpenter’s crew, and six 
good men over and above her complement ; but it was no easy 
matter to get on board of her, let me tell you, after she had 
been lowered, carefully watching the rolls, with four hands 


62 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


in. The moment she touched the water, the tackles were 
cleverly unhooked, and the rest of us tumbled on board, shin 
leather growing scarce, when we shoved off. With great diffi- 
culty, and not without wet jackets, we, the supernumeraries, 
got on board, and the boat returned to the Torch. The even- 
ing when we landed in the lobster-box, as Jack loves to des- 
ignate a transport, was too far advanced for us to do any 
thing towards refitting that night; and the confusion, and 
uproar, and numberless abominations of the crowded craft, 
were irksome to a greater degree than I expected, after hav- 
ing been accustomed to the strict and orderly discipline of a 
man-of-war. The following forenoon the Torch was ordered 
by signal to chase in the south-east quarter, and hauling out 
from the fleet, she was soon out of sight. 

“ There goes my house and home,” said I, and a feeling of 
desolateness came over me, that I would have been ashamed 
at the time to have acknowledged. We stood on, and worked 
hard all day in repairing the damage sustained during the 
gale. 

At length dinner was announced, and I was invited, as 
the officer in charge of the seamen, to go down. The party 
in the cabin consisted of an old gizzened major with a brown 
wig, and a voice melodious as the sharpening of a saw — I 
fancied sometimes that the vibration created by it set the 
very glasses in the steward’s pantry a-ringing — three cap- 
tains and six subalterns, every man of whom, as the devil 
would have it, played on the flute, and drew bad sketches, and 
kept journals. Most of them were very white and blue in 
the gills when we sat down, and others of a dingy sort of 
whitey-brown, while they ogled the viands in a most suspi- 
cious manner. Evidently most of them had but small confi- 
dence in their moniplies; and one or two, as the ship gave a 
heavier roll than usual, looked wistfully towards the door, 
and half rose from their chairs, as if in act to bolt. How- 
ever, hot brandy grog being the order of the day, we all, 
landsmen and sailors, got on astonishingly, and numberless 
long yarns were spun of what “ what’s-his-name of this, and 
so-and-so of t’other, did or did not do.” 

About half-past five in the evening, the captain of the 
transport, or rather the agent, an old lieutenant in the navy, 
and our host, rang his bell for the steward. 

“ Whereabouts are we in the fleet, steward ? ” said the an- 
cient. 

“ The sternmost ship of all, sir,” said the man. 

“ Where is the commodore ? ” 

“ About three miles a-head, sir.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


63 


u And the Torch, has she rejoined us? ” 

“No, sir; she has been out of sight these two hours; 
when last seen, she was in chase of something in the south- 
east quarter, and carrying all the sail she could stagger un- 
der” 

“ Very well, very well.” 

A song from Master Waistbelt, one of the young officers. 
Before he had concluded, the mate came down. By this time 
it was near sun-down. 

“ Shall we shake a reef out of the main and mizen-topsails, 
sir, and set the mainsail and spanker? The wind has lulled, 
sir, and there is a strange sail in the north-west that seems 
to be dodging us — but she may be one of the merchantmen, 
after all, sir.” 

“ Never mind, Mr. Leechline,” said our gallant captain. 
“ Mr. Bandalier — a song if you please.” 

Now, the young soldiers on board happened to be men of 
the world, and Bandalier, who did not sing, turned otf the 
request with a good-humoured laugh, alleging his inability 
with much suavity; but the old rough Turk of a tar-bucket 
chose to fire at this, and sang out — “ Oh, if you don’t choose 
to sing when you are asked, and to sport your damned fine 
airs ” 

“ Mr. Crowfoot ” 

“ Captain,” said the agent, piqued at having his title by 
courtesy withheld. 

“ By no means,” said Major Sawrasp, who had spoken — 
“ I believe I am speaking to Lieutenant Crowfoot, agent for 
transport No. — , wherein it so happens I am commanding 
officer — so ” 

Old Crowfoot saw he was in the wrong box, and therefore 
hove about, and backed out in good time — making the 
amende as smoothly as his gruff nature admitted, and trying 
to look pleased. 

Presently the same bothersome mate came down again — 
“ The strange sail is creeping up on our quarter, sir.” 

“ Ay ? ” said Crowfoot, u how does she lay ? ” 

“ She is hauled by the wind on the starboard tack, sir,” 
continued the mate. 

We now went on deck, and found that our suspicious 
friend had shortened sail, as if he had made us out, and was 
afraid to approach, or was lying by until nightfall. 

Sawrasp had before this, with the tact and ease of a soldier 
and a gentleman, soldered his feud with Crowfoot, and, with 
the rest of the lobsters, was full of fight. The sun at length 


6 4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


set, and the night closed in when the old major again ad- 
dressed Crowfoot. 

“ My dear fellow, can’t you wait a bit, and let us have a 
rattle at that chap ? ” And old Crowfoot, who never bore a 
grudge long, seemed much inclined to fall in with the sol- 
dier’s views ; and, in fine, although the weather was now mod- 
erate, he did not make sail. Presently the Commodore fired a 
gun, and shewed lights. It was the signal to close. “ Oh, time 
enough,” said old Crowfoot — “ what is the old man afraid 
of ? ” Another gun — and a fresh constellation on board the 
frigate. It was “ an enemy in the north-west quarter.” 

“ Hah, hah,” sung out the agent, “ is it so ? Major, what say 
you to a brush — let her close, eh? — should like to pepper her 
— wouldn’t you — three hundred men, eh ? ” 

By this time we were all on deck — the schooner came 
bowling along under a reefed mainsail and jib, now rising 
and presently disappearing behind the stormy heavings of 
the roaring sea, the rising moon shining brightly on her 
canvass pinions, as if she had been an albatross skimming 
along the surface of the foaming water, while her broad 
white streak glanced like a silver ribbon along her clear 
black side. She was a very large craft of her class, long 
and low T in the water, and evidently very fast; and it was 
now clear, from our having been unable as yet to sway up 
our fore-topmast, that she took us for a disabled merchant- 
man, which might be cut off from the convoy. 

As she approached, we could perceive by the bright moon- 
light, that she had six guns of a side, and two long ones on 
pivots, the one forward on the forecastle, and the other choke 
up to the mainmast. 

Her deck was crowded with dark figures, pike and cutlass 
in hand; we were by this time so near that we could see a 
trumpet in the hand of a man who stood in the fore rigging, 
with his feet on the hammock netting, and his back against 
the shrouds. We had cleared away our six eighteen-pound 
carronades, which composed our starboard broadside, and 
loaded them, each with a round shot, and a bag of two hun- 
dred musket-balls, while three hundred soldiers in their for- 
aging jackets, and with their loaded muskets in their hands, 
were lying on the deck, concealed by the quarters, while the 
blue jackets were sprawling in groups round the carronades. 

I was lying down beside the gallant old major, who had 
a bugler close to him, while Crowfoot was standing on the 
gun nearest us ; but getting tired of this recumbent position, 
I crept aft, until I could see through a spare port. 

“ Why don’t the rascals fire ? ” quoth Sawrasp. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


65 


u Oh, that would alarm the Commodore. They intend to 
walk quietly on board of us; but they will find themselves 
mistaken a little,” whispered Crowfoot. 

“ Mind, men, no firing till the bugle sounds,” said the ma- 
jor. 

The word was passed along. 

The schooner was by this time ploughing through it within 
half pistol-shot, with the white water dashing away from 
her bows, and buzzing past her sides — her crew as thick as 
peas on her deck. Once or twice she hauled her wind a little, 
and then again kept away from us, as if irresolute what to 
do. At length, without hailing, and all silent as the grave, 
she put her helm a-starboard, and ranged alongside. 

“ Now, my boys, give it him,” shouted Crowfoot — “ Fire! ” 

“Ready, men,” shouted the major, — “Present — fire!” 

The bugles sounded, the cannon roared, the musketry rat- 
tled, and the men cheered, and all was hurra, and fire, and 
fury. The breeze was strong enough to carry the smoke for- 
ward, and I saw the deck of the schooner, where the moment 
before all was still and motionless, and filled with dark fig- 
ures, till there scarcely appeared standing room, at once con- 
verted into a shambles. The blasting fiery tempest had laid 
low nearly the whole mass, like a maize plat before a hurri- 
cane; and such a cry arose, as if 

“ Men fought on earth. 

And fiends in upper air. M 

Scarcely a man was on his legs, the whole crew seemed to 
have been levelled with the deck, many dead, no doubt, and 
most wounded, while we could see numbers endeavouring to 
creep towards the hatches, while the black blood, in horrible 
streams, gushed through her scuppers across the bright white 
streak that glanced in the moonlight. 

Some one on board of the privateer now hailed, “ We have 
surrendered; cease firing, sir.” But devil a bit — we contin- 
ued blazing away — a lantern was run up to his main gaff, 
and then lowered again. 

“We have struck, sir,” shouted another voice, “ don’t mur- 
der us — don’t fire, sir, for Godsake.” 

But fire we still did; no sailor has the least compunction 
at even running down a privateer. Mercy to privateersmen 
is unknown. “ Give them the stem,” is the word, the curs 
being regarded by Jack at the best as highwaymen; so, when 
he found we still peppered away, sailing two feet for our one, 
he hauled his wind, and speedily got beyond range of 
our carronades, having all this time never fired a shot. 


66 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

Shortly after this we ran under the Kayo’s stern — she was 
lying to. 

“ Mr Crowfoot, what have you been after ? I have a great 
mind to report you, sir.” 

“We could not help it, sir,” sung out Crowfoot, in a most 
dolorous tone, in answer to the captain of the frigate ; “ we 
have been nearly taken, sir, by a privateer, sir — an immense 
vessel, sir, that sails like a witch, sir.” 

“ Keep close in my wake then, sir,” rejoined the captain, in 
a gruff tone, and immediately the Kayo bore up. 

Next morning we were all carrying as much sail as we 
could crowd. By this time we had gotten our jury-fore- 
topmast up, and the Kayo, having kept astern in the night, 
was now under topsails, and top-gallantsails, with the wet 
canvass at the head of the sails, shewing that the reefs had 
been freshly shaken out — rolling wedge-like on the swell, and 
rapidly shooting a-head, to resume her station. As she passed 
us, and let fall her foresail, she made the signal to make more 
sail, her object being to get through the Caicos Passage, into 
which we were now entering, before nightfall. It was eleven 
o’clock in the forenoon. A fine clear breezy day, fresh and 
pleasant, sometimes cloudy overhead, but always breaking 
away again, with a bit of a sneezer, and a small shower. As 
the sun rose there were indications of squalls in the north- 
eastern quarter, and about noon one of them was whitening 
to windward. So “hands by the top-gallant clew-lines” was 
the word, and we were all standing by to shorten sail, when 
the Commodore came to the wind as sharp and suddenly as 
if he had anchored; but on a second look, I saw his sheets 
were let fly, haulyards let go, and apparently all was con- 
fusion on board of her. I ran to the side and looked over. The 
long heaving dark blue swell had changed into a light green 
hissing ripple. 

“Zounds, Captain Crowfoot, shoal water — why it breaks 
— we shall be ashore ! ” 

“Down with the helm — brace round the yards,” shouted 
Crowfoot; “that’s it— steady — luff, my man;” and the dan- 
ger was so imminent that even the studding-sail haulyards 
were not let go, and the consequence was, that the booms 
snapped off like carrots, as we came to the wind. 

“ Lord help us, we shall never weather that foaming reef 
there — set the spanker — haul out — haul down the foretop- 
mast-staysail — so, mind your luff, my man.” 

The frigate now began to fire right and left, and the hiss- 
ing of the shot overhead was a fearful augury of what was 
to take place; so. sudden was the accident, that they had not 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


67 

had time to draw the round shot. The other transports were 
equally fortunate with ourselves, in weathering the shoal, 
and presently we were all close hauled to windward of the 
reef, until we weathered the easternmost prong, when we 
bore up. But, poor Rayo! she had struck on a coral reef, 
where the Admiralty charts laid down fifteen fathoms water; 
and although there was some talk at the time of an error in 
judgment, in not having the lead going in the chains, still do 
I believe there was no fault lying at the door of her gallant 
captain. By the time we had weathered the reef, the frigate 
had swung oif from the pinnacle of rock on which she had 
been in a manner impaled, and was making all the sail she 
could, with a fothered sail under her bows, and chain-pumps 
clanging, and whole cataracts of water gushing from them, 
clear white jets spouting from all the scuppers, fore and aft. 
She made the signal to close. The next, alas ! was the British 
ensign, seized, union down in the main-rigging, the sign of 
the uttermost distress. Still we all bowled along together, but 
her yards were not squared, nor her sails set with her cus- 
tomary precision, and her lurches became more and more 
sickening, until at length she rolled so heavily, that she 
dipped both yardarms alternately in the water, and reeled 
to and fro like a drunken man. 

“ What is that splash ? ” 

It was the larboard-bow gun, a long eighteen-pounder, 
hove overboard, and watching the roll, the whole broadside, 
one after another, was cast into the sea. The clang of the 
chain pumps increased, the water rushed in at one side of 
the main-deck, and out at the other, in absolute cascades 
from the ports. At this moment the whole fleet of boats were 
alongside, keeping way with the ship, in the light breeze. Her 
main-topsail was hove aback, while the captain’s voice re- 
sounded through the ship. 

“ Now, men — all hands — bags and hammocks — starboard 
watch, the starboard side — larboard watch, the larboard side 
— no rushing now — she will swim this hour to come.” 

The bags, and hammocks, and officers’ kits, were handed 
into the boats ; the men were told off over the side, as quietly 
by watches as if at muster, the officers last. At length the 
first lieutenant came down. By this time she was settling 
perceptibly in the water; but the old captain still stood on 
the gangway, holding by the iron stanchion, where, taking 
off his hat, he remained uncovered for a moment, with the 
tears standing in his eyes. He then replaced it, descended, 
and took his place in the ship’s launch — the last man to leave 
the ship : and there was little time to spare, for^ we had 


68 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


scarcely shoved off a few yards, to clear the spars of the 
wreck, when she sended torward, heavily and sickly, on the 
long swell. — She never rose to the opposite heave of the sea 
again, but gradually sank by the head. The hull disappeared 
slowly and dignifiedly, the ensign fluttered and vanished be- 
neath the dark ocean — I could have fancied reluctantly — as 
if it had been drawn down through a trap-door. The topsails 
next disappeared, the foretopsail sinking fastest; and last of 
all, the white pennant at the main-top-gallantmast head, 
after flickering and struggling in the wind, flew up in the 
setting sun as if imbued with life, like a stream of white fire, 
or as if it had been the spirit leaving the body, and was then 
drawn down into' the abyss, and the last vestige of the Rayo 
vanished for ever. The crew, as if moved by one common 
impulse, gave three cheers. 

The captain now stood up in his boat — “Men, the Rayo 
is no more, but it is my duty to tell you, that although you 
are now to be distributed amongst the transports, you are 
still amenable to martial law: I am aware, men, this hint 
may not be necessary, still it is right you should know it.” 

When the old hooker clipped out of sight, there was not a 
dry eye in the whole fleet. “ There she goes, the dear old 
beauty,” said one of her crew. “ There goes the blessed old 
black b — h,” quoth another. “ Ah, many a merry night have 
we had in the clever little craft,” quoth a third; and there 
was really a tolerable shedding of tears and squirting of to- 
bacco juice. But the blue ripple had scarcely blown over the 
glass-like surface of the sea where she had sunk, when the 
buoyancy of young hearts, with the prospect of a good fur- 
lough amongst the lobster boxes for a time, seemed to be up- 
permost among the men. The officers, I saw and knew, felt 
very differently. 

“My eye!” sung out an old quartermaster in our boat, 
perched well forward, with his back against the ring in the 
stem, and his arms crossed, after having been busily em- 
ployed rummaging in his bag, “my eye, what a pity — oh, 
what a pity! ” 

Come, there is some feeling, genuine , at all events, 
thought I. 

“Why,” said Bill Chestree, the captain of the foretop, 
“what is can’t be helped, old Fizgig; old Rayo has gone 
down, and ” 

“ Old Rayo be d d, ‘Master Bill,” said the man, “ but 

may I be flogged, if I han’t forgotten half a pound of negro- 
head baccy in Dick Catgut’s bag.” 

“ Launch ahoy ! ” hailed a half drunken voice from one of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


69 


the boats astern of us. ” Hillo,” responded the coxswain. The 
poor skipper even pricked up his ears. “ Have you got Dick 
Catgut’s fiddle among ye ? ” This said Dick Catgut was the 
corporal of marines, and the prime instigator of all the fun 
amongst the men. “ No, no,” said several voices, “ no fiddle 
here.” The hail passed round among the other boats, “No 
fiddle.” “ I would rather lose three days’ grog than have his 
fiddle mislaid,” quoth the man who pulled the bow oar. 

“ Why don’t you ask Dick himself ? ” said our coxswain. 

“ Ay, true enough — Dick, Dick Catgut ! ” but no one an- 
swered. Alas ! poor Dick was no where to be found ; he had 
been mislaid as well as his fiddle. He had broken into the 
spirit-room, as it turned out, and having got drunk, did not 
come to time when the frigate sunk. 

Our ship, immediately after the frigate’s crew had been be- 
stowed, and the boats got in, hoisted the Commodore’s light, 
and the following morning we fell in with the Torch, off the 
east end of Jamaica, which, after seeing the transports safe 
into Kingston, and taking out me and my people, bore up 
through the Gulf, and resumed her cruising ground on the 
edge of the Gulf stream, between 25° and 30° north latitude. 


CHAPTER III 

THE QUENCHING OF THE TORCH 

[ “Then rose from sea to sky, the wild farewell.'” 

Don Juan . 

The evening was closing in dark and rainy, with every ap- 
pearance of a gale from the westward, and the weather had 
become so thick and boisterous, that the lieutenant of the 
watch had ordered the look-out at the mast-head down on 
deck. The man, on his way down, had gone into the maintop 
to bring aw T ay some things he had placed there in going aloft, 
and was in the act of leaving it, when he sung out,— “ A sail 
on the weather-bow ? ” 

“ What does she look like ? ” 

“ Can’t rightly say, sir ; she is in the middle of the thick 
weather to windward.” 

“ Stay where you are a little. — Jenkins, jump forward, and 
see what you can make of her from the foreyard.” 


7o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


Whilst the topman was obeying his instructions, the look- 
out again hailed — “ She is a ship, sir, close-hauled on the 
same tack, — the weather clears, and I can see her now.” 

The wind, ever since noon, had been blowing in heavy 
squalls, with appalling lulls between them. One of these 
gusts had been so violent as to bury in the sea the lee-guns 
in the waist, although the brig had nothing set but her close- 
reefed main-topsail, and reefed foresail. It was now spend- 
ing its fury, and she was beginning to roll heavily, when, 
with a suddenness almost incredible to one unacquainted 
with these latitudes, the veil of mist that had hung to wind- 
ward the whole day was rent and drawn aside, and the red 
and level rays of the setting sun flashed at once, through a 
long arch of glowing clouds, on the black hull and tall spar3 
of his Britannic Majesty’s sloop, Torch. And, true enough, 
we were not the only spectators of this gloomy splendour; 
for, right in the wake of the moon-like sun, now half sunk in 
the sea, at the distance of a mile or more, lay a long warlike- 
looking craft, apparently a frigate or heavy corvette, rolling 
heavily and silently in the trough of the sea, with her masts, 
yards, and the scanty sail she had set, in strong relief against 
the glorious horizon. 

Jenkins now hailed from the foreyard — “ The strange sail 
is bearing up, sir.” 

As he spoke, a flash was seen, followed, after what seemed 
a long interval, by the deadened report of the gun, as if it 
had been an echo, and the sharp, half-ringing, half-hissing 
sound of the shot. It fell short, but close to us, and was evi- 
dently thrown from a heavy cannon, from the length of the 
range. 

Mr Splinter, the first lieutenant, jumped from the gun he 
stood on — “.Quartermaster, keep her away a bit,” and dived 
into the cabin to make his report. 

Captain Deadeye was a staid, stiff-rumped, wall-eyed, old 
first lieutenantish-looking veteran, with his coat of a regular 
Rodney cut, broad skirts, long waist, and stand-up collar, 
over which dangled either a queue, or a marlinspike with a 
tuft of oakum at the end of it, — it would have puzzled old 
Nick. to say which. His lower spars were cased in tight un- 
mentionables of what had once been white kerseymere, and 
long boots, the coal-scuttle tops of which served as scuppers 
to carry off the drainings from his coat-flaps in bad weather; 
he was, in fact, the “ last of the sea-monsters,” but, like all 
his tribe, as brave as steel, and, when put to it, as alert as a 
cat. 

He no sooner heard Splinter’s report, than he sprang up 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


7 1 

tlie ladder, brushing; the tumbler of swizzle he had just 
brewed clean out of the fiddle into the lap of Mr Saveall, the 
purser, who had dined with him, and nearly extinguishing 
the said purser, by his arm striking the bowl of the pipe he 
was smoking, thereby forcing the shank half-way down his 
throat. 

“ My glass, Wilson,” to his steward. 

“ She is close to, sir ; you can see her plainly without it,” 
said Mr Treenail, the second lieutenant, from the weather 
nettings, where he was reconnoitring. 

After a long look through his starboard blinker, (his other 
skylight had been shut up ever since Aboukir,) Captain 
Deadeye gave orders to “ clear away the weather-bow gun ; ” 
and as it w r as now getting too dark for flags to be seen dis- 
tinctly, he desired that three lanterns might be got ready for 
hoisting vertically in the main-rigging. 

“ All ready forward there ? ” 

“ All ready, sir.” 

“ Then hoist away the lights, and throw a shot across her 
forefoot — Fire!” Bang went our carronade, but our friend 
to windward paid no regard to the private signal; he had 
shaken a reef out of his topsails, and was coming down fast 
upon us. 

It was clear that old Blowhard had at first taken him for 
one of our own cruisers, and meant to signalize him, “ all 
regular and ship-shape,” to use his own expression. Most of 
us, however, thought it would have been wiser to have made 
sail, and widened our distance a little, in place of bothering 
with old-fashioned manoeuvres, which might end in our 
catching a tartar; but the skipper had been all his life in 
lme-of -battle ships, or heavy frigates; and it was a tough job, 
under any circumstances, to persuade him of the propriety 
of “ up-stick-and-away,” as we soon felt to our cost. 

The enemy, for such he evidently was, now all at once 
yawed, and indulged us with a sight of his teeth; and there 
he was, fifteen ports of a side on his maindeck, with the due 
quantum of carronades on his quarterdeck and forecastle; 
whilst his short lower masts, white canvass, and the tremen- 
dous hoist in his topsails, shewed him to be a heavy Ameri- 
can frigate; and it was equally certain that he had cleverly 
hooked us under his lee, within comfortable range of his long 
twenty-fours. To convince the most unbelieving, three jets 
of flame, amidst wreaths of white smoke, now glanced from 
his maindeck; but in this instance, the sound of the cannon 
was followed by a sharp crackle and a shower of splinters 
from the foreyard. 


72 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


It was clear we had got an ugly customer — poor Jenkins 
now called to Treenail, who was standing forward near the 
gun which had been fired — ■“ Och, sir, and it’s badly wounded 
we are here.” 

The officer was a Patlander, as well as the seaman. “ Which 
of you, my boy ? ” — the glowing seriousness of the affair in 
no way checking his propensity to fun, — “ Which of you, 
— you, or the yard ? ” 

“ Both of us, your honour ; but the yard badliest.” 

“ The devil ! — Come down, then, or get into the top, and I 
will have you looked after presently.” 

The poor fellow crawled off the yard into the foretop, as 
he was ordered, where he was found after the brush, badly 
wounded by a splinter in the breast. 

Jonathan, no doubt, “ calculated,” as well he might, that 
this taste of his quality would be quite sufficient for a little 
eighteen-gun sloop close under his lee; but the fight was not 
to be so easily taken out of Deadeye, although even to his 
optic it was now high time to be off. 

“ All hands make sail, Mr Splinter ; that chap is too heavy 
for us. — Mr Kelson,” to the carpenter, “ jump up and see 
what the foreyard will carry. Keep her away, my man,” to 
the seaman at the helm. — “ Crack on, Mr Splinter, set the 
fore-topsail, — shake all the reefs out, and loose topgallant- 
sails; — stand by to sheet home; and see all clear to rig the 
booms out, if the breeze lulls.” 

In less than a minute we were bowling along before it; 
but the wind was breezing up again, and no one could say 
how long the wounded foreyard would carry the weight and 
drag of the sails. To mend the matter, Jonathan was com- 
ing up hand over hand with the freshening breeze, under a 
press of canvass ; it was clear that escape was next to impossi- 
ble. 

“ Clear away the larboard guns! ” I absolutely jumped off 
the deck with astonishment — who could have spoken it? It 
appeared such downright madness to shew fight under the 
very muzzles of the guns of an enemy, half of whose broad- 
side was sufficient to sink us. It was the captain, however, 
and there was nothing for it but to obey. 

In an instant, the creaking and screaming of the carronade 
slides, the rattling of the carriage of the long twelve-pounder 
amidships, the thumping and punching of handspikes, and 
the dancing and jumping of Jack himself, were heard 
through the whistling of the breeze, as the guns were being 
shotted and run out. In a few seconds all was still again. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 73 

but the rushing sound of the vessel going through the water, 
and of the rising gale amongst the rigging. 

The men stood clustered at their quarters, their cutlasses 
buckled round their waists, all without jackets and waist- 
coats, and many with nothing but their trowsers on. 

“Now, men, mind your aim; our only chance is to wing 
him. I will yaw the ship, and as your guns come to. bear, 
slap it right into his bows. — Starboard your helm, my man, 
and bring her to the wind.” As she came round, blaze went 
our carronades and long-gun in succession, with good will 
and good aim, and down came his foretop-sail on the cap, 
with all the superincumbent spars and gear; the head of the 
topmast had been shot away. The men instinctively cheered. 
“ That will do ; now knock off, my boys, and let us run for 
it. Keep her away again ; make all sail.” 

Jonathan was for an instant paralyzed by our impudence; 
but just as we were getting before the wind, he yawed, and 
let drive his whole broadside; and fearfully did it trans- 
mogrify us. Half an hour before we were as gay a little 
sloop as ever floated, with a crew of 120 as fine fellows as ever 
manned a British man-of-war. The iron-shower sped — ten 
of the hundred and twenty never saw the sun rise again; 
seventeen more were wounded, three mortally; we had eight 
shot between wind and water, our maintop-mast shot away 
as clean as a carrot, and our hull and rigging otherwise regu- 
larly cut to pieces. Another broadside succeeded ; but by this 
time we had bore up — thanks to the loss of our after sail, we 
could do nothing else; and what was better luck still, whilst 
the loss of our maintop-mast paid the brig off on the one 
hand, the loss of head-sail in the frigate brought her as 
quickly to the wind on the other; thus most of her shot fell 
astern of us; and, before she could bear up again in chase, 
the squall struck her, and carried her maintop-mast over- 
board. 

This gave us a start, crippled and bedevilled though we 
were; and»as the night fell, we contrived to lose sight of our 
large friend. With breathless anxiety did we carry on 
through that night, expecting every lurch to send our re- 
maining topmast by the board*, but the weather moderated, 
and next morning the sun shone on our bloodstained decks, 
at anchor off the entrance to St George’s harbour. 

I was the mate of the watch, and, as day dawned, I had 
amused myself with other younkers over the side, examining 
the shot holes and other injuries sustained from the fire of 
the frigate, and contrasting the clean, sharp, well-defined 
apertures, made by the 24-pound shot from the long guns, 


74 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


with the bruised and splintered ones from the 32-pound car- 
ronades ; but the men had begun to wash down the decks, and 
the first gush of clotted blood and water from the scuppers 
fairly turned me sick. I turned away, when Mr Kennedy, 
our gunner, a good steady old Scotchman, with whom I was 
a bit of a favourite, came up to me — “ Mr Cringle, the cap- 
tain has sent for you; poor Mr Johnstone is fast going, he 
wants to see you.” 

I knew my young messmate had been wounded, for I had 
seen him carried below after the frigate’s second broadside; 
but the excitement of a boy, who had seldom smelt powder 
fired in anger before, had kept me on deck the whole night, 
and it never once occurred to me to ask for him, until the 
old gunner spoke. 

I hastened down to our small confined berth, where I saw 
a sight that quickly brought me to myself. Poor Johnstone 
was indeed going; a grape-shot had struck him, and torn his 
belly open. There he lay in his bloody hammock on the 
deck, pale and motionless as if he had already departed, ex- 
cept a slight twitching at the corners of his mouth, and a 
convulsive contraction and distension of his nostrils. His 
brown ringlets still clustered over his marble forehead, but 
they were drenched in the cold sweat of death. The surgeon 
could do nothing for him, and had left him; but our old cap- 
tain — bless him for it — I little expected from his usual 
crusty bearing, to find him so employed — had knelt by his 
side, and, whilst he read from the Prayer-book one of those 
beautiful petitions in our Church service to Almighty God, 
for mercy to the passing soul of one so young, and so early 
cut off, the tears trickled down the old man’s cheeks, and 
filled the furrows worn in them by the washing up of many 
a salt spray. On the other side of his narrow bed, fomenting 
the rigid muscles of his neck and chest, sate Misthress Con- 
nolly, one of three women on board — a rough enough crea- 
ture, Heaven knows! in common weather; but her stifled 
sobs shewed that the mournful sight had stirred* up all the 
woman within her. She had opened the bosom of the poor 
boy’s shirt, and untying the riband that fastened a small gold 
crucifix round his neck, she placed it in his cold hand. The 
young midshipman was of a respectable family in Limerick, 
her native place, and a Catholic — another strand of the cord 
that bound her to him. When the captain finished reading, 
he bent over the departing youth, and kissed his cheek. 
*’ Your young messmate just now desired to see you, Mr 
Cringle, but it is too late, he is insensible and dying.” Whilst 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 75 

he spoke, a strong shiver passed through the boy’s frame, his 
face became slightly convulsed, and all was over! 

The captain rose, and Connolly, with a delicacy of feeling 
which many might not have looked for in her situation, 
spread one of our clean mess table-cloths over the body. 
“ And is it really gone you are, my poor dear boy ! ” forget- 
ting all difference of rank in the fulness of her heart. “ Who 
will tell this to your mother, and nobody here to wake you 
but ould Kate Connolly, and no time will they be giving me, 
nor whisky — Ochon ! ochon ! ” 

But enough and to spare of this piping work. The boat- 
swain’s whistle now called me to the gangway, to superintend 
the handing up, from a shore boat alongside, a supply of the 
grand staples of the Island — ducks and onions. The three 
’Mudians in her were characteristic samples of the inhabi- 
tants. Their faces and skins, where exposed, were not 
tanned, but absolutely burnt into a fiery-red colour by the 
sun. They guessed and drawled like any buckskin from Vir- 
ginia, superadding to their accomplishments their insular 
peculiarity of always shutting one eye when they spoke to 
you. They are all Yankees at bottom; and if they could get 
their 365 Islands — so they call the large stones on which they 
live — under weigh, they would not be long in towing them 
into the Chesapeake. 

The word had been passed to get six of the larboard-guns 
and all the shot over to the other side, to give the brig a list 
of a streak or two a-starboard, so that the stage on which the 
carpenter and his crew were at work over the side, stopping 
the shot holes about the water line, might swing clear of the 
wash of the sea. I had jumped from the nettings, where I 
was perched, to assist in unbolting one of the carronade 
slides, when I slipped and capsized against a peg sticking out 
of one of the scuppers. I took it for something else, and 

d d the ring-bolt incontinently. Caboose, the cook, was 

passing with his mate, a Jamaica negro of the name of John 
Crow, at the time. “ Don’t d — n the remains of your fellow- 
mortals, Master Cringle; that is my leg.” The cook of a man- 
of-war is no small beer; he is his Majesty’s warrant-officer, a 
much bigger wig than a poor little mid, with whom it is con- 
descension on his part to jest. 

It seems to be a sort of rule, that no old sailor who has not 
lost a limb, or an eye at least, shall be eligible to the office, 
but as the kind of maiming is so far circumscribed that all 
cooks must have two arms, a laughable proportion of them 
have but one leg. Besides the honour, the perquisites are 
good; accordingly, all old quartermasters, captains of tops. 


76 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


&c., look forward to the cookdom, as the cardinals look to the 
popedom; and really there is some analogy between them, for 
neither are preferred from any especial fitness for the office. 
A cardinal is made pope because he is old, infirm, and imbe- 
cile, — our friend Caboose was made coolTbecause he had Been 
Lord Nelson’s coxswain, was a drunken rascal, and had a 
wooden leg; for, as to his gastronomical qualifications, he 
knew no more of the science than just sufficient to watch the 
copper where the salt junk and potatoes were boiling. Hav- 
ing been a little in the wind overnight, he had quartered 
himself, in the superabundance of his heroism, at a gun 
where he had no business to be, and in running it out, he 
had jammed his toe in a scupper hole, so fast that there was 
no extricating him; and notwithstanding his piteous en- 
treaty, “ to be eased out handsomely, as the leg was made 
out of a plank of the Victory, and the ring at the end out of 
one of her bolts,” the captain of the gun finding, after a 
•Stout pull, that the man was like to come “ home in his 
hand without the leg,” was forced “to break him short off,” 
as he phrased it, to get him out of the way, and let the car- 
riage traverse. In the morning when he sobered, he had quite 
forgotten where the leg was, and how he broke it; he there- 
fore got Kelson to splice the stump with the butt-end of a 
mop; but in the hurry it had been left three inches too long, 
bo he had to jerk himself up to the top of his peg at every 
step. The doctor, glad to breathe the fresh air after the hor- 
rible w^ork he had gone through, was leaning over the side 
speaking to Kelson. When I fell, he turned round and drew 
Cookee’s fire on himself. “ Doctor, you have not prescribed 
for me yet.” 

“No, Caboose, I have not; what is wrong?” 

“Wrong, sir? why, I have lost my leg, and the captain’s 
clerk says I am not in the return ! — Look here, sir, had Doc- 
tor Kelson not coopered me, where should I have been?— 
Why, doctor, had I been looked after, amputation might have 
I been unnecessary ; a fish might have done, whereas I have 
had to be spliced .” 

He was here cut short by the voice of his mate, who had 
gone forward to slay a pig for the gunroom mess. “ Oh, Lad, 
oh! — Massa Caboose! — dem dam Yankee! — De purser killed, 
massa ! — Dem shoot him troo de head ! — Oh, Lad ! ” 

Captain Deadeye had come on deck. “You John Crow, 
what is wrong with you ? ” 

“ W 7 hy, de Purser killed, captain, dat all.” 

“Purser killed? — Doctor, is Saveall hurt?” 

Treenail could stand it no longer. “No, sir, no; it is one 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


77 


of the gunroom pigs that we shipped at Halifax three cruises 
ago; I am sure I don’t know how he survived one, but the 
seamen took a fancy to him, and nicknamed him the Purser. 
You know, sir, they make pets of any thing, and every thing, 
at a pinch ! ” 

Here John Crow drew the carcass from the hog-pen, and 
sure enough a shot had cut the poor Purser’s head nearly off. 
Blackee looked at him with a most whimsical expression; 
they say no one can fathom a negro’s affection for a pig. 
“ Poor Purser ! de People call him Purser, sir, because him 
knowing chap; him cabbage all de grub, slush, and stuff in 
him own corner, and give only de small bit, and de bad piece, 
to de oder pig; so. Captain ” 

Splinter saw the poor fellow was like to get into a scrape. 
u That will do, John Crow — forward with you now, and lend 
a hand to cat the anchor. — All hands up anchor ! ” The boat- 
swain’s hoarse voice repeated the command, and he in turn 
was re-echoed by his mates ; the capstan was manned, and the 
crew stamped round to a point of war most villanously per- 
formed by a bad drummer and a worse fifer, in as high glee 
as if those who were killed had been snug and well in their 
"hammocks on the berth-deck, in place of at the bottom of the 
sea, with each a shot at his feet. We weighed, and began to 
work up, tack and tack, towards the island of Ireland, where 
the arsenal is, amongst a perfect labyrinth of shoals, through 
which the ’Mudian pilot cunned the ship with great skill, tak- 
ing his stand, to our no small wonderment, not at the gang- 
way or poop, as usual, but on the bowsprit end, so that he 
might see the rocks under foot, and shun them accordingly, 
for they are so steep and numerous, (they look like large fish 
in the clear water,) and the channel is so intricate, that you 
have to go quite close to them. At noon we arrived at the 
anchorage, and hauled our moorings on board. 

We had refitted, and been four days at sea, on our voyage 
to Jamaica, when the gunroom officers gave our mess a blow- 
out. 

The increased motion and rushing of the vessel through 
the water, the groaning of the masts, the howling of the 
rising gale, and the frequent trampling of the watch on deck, 
were prophetic of wet jackets to some of us; still, midship- 
man-like, we were as happy as a good dinner and some wine 
could make us, until the old gunner shoved his weather- 
beaten phiz and bald pate in at the door. “ Beg pardon, Mr 
Splinter, but if you will spare Mr Cringle on the forecastle 
for an hour until the moon rises.” 

(“ Spare, quotha, is his Majesty’s officer a joint stool ? ”) 


7 8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Why, Mr Kennedy, why ? here, man, take a glass of grog.” 
“ I thank you, sir. It is coming on a roughish night, sir ; 
the running ships should be crossing us hereabouts; indeed 
more than once I thought there was a strange sail close 
aboard of us, the scud is flying so low, and in such white 
flakes ; and none of us have an eye like Mr Cringle, unless it 
be John Crow, and he is all but frozen.” 

“ Well, Tom, I suppose you will go "■ — Anglic e, from a first 
lieutenant to a mid — “ Brush instanter.” 

Having changed my uniform, for shag-trowsers, pea- 
jacket, and south-west cap, I went forward, and took my 
station, in no pleasant humour, on the stowed foretopmast- 
staysail, with my arm round the stay. I had been half an 
hour there, the weather was getting worse, the rain was 
beating in my face, and the spray from the stem was flash- 
ing over me, as it roared through the waste of sparkling and 
hissing waters. I turned my back to the weather for a mo- 
ment, to press my hand on my strained eyes. When I 
opened them again, I saw the gunner’s gaunt high-featured 
visage thrust anxiously forward; his profile looked as if 
rubbed over with phosphorous, and his whole person as if we 
had been playing at snap-dragon. “ What has come over 
you, Mr Kennedy ? — who is burning the bluelight now ? ” 

“ A wiser man than I am must tell you that ; look forward, 
Mr Cringle — look there ; what do your books say to that ? ” 
I looked forth, and saw, at the extreme end of the jib- 
boom, wliat I had read of, certainly, but never expected to 
see, a pale, greenish, glow-worm coloured flame, of the size 
and shape of the frosted glass-shade over the swinging lamp 
in the gun-room. It drew out and flattened as the vessel 
pitched and rose again, and as she sheered about, it wavered 
round the point that seemed to attract it, like a soapsud 
bubble blown from a tobacco pipe before it is shaken into 
the air; at the core it was comparatively bright, but gradu- 
ally faded into a halo. It shed a baleful and ominous light 
on the surrounding objects; the group of sailors on the fore- 
castle looked like spectres, and they shrunk together, and 
whispered when it began to roll slowly along the spar towards 
where the boatswain was sitting at my feet. At this instant 
something slid down the stay, and a cold clammy hand 
passed round my neck. I was within an ace of losing my 
hold, and tumbling overboard. “ Heaven have mercy on me, 
what’s that ? ” 

“ It’s that skylarking son of a gun, Jem Sparkle’s mon- 
key, sir. You, Jem, you’ll never rest till that brute is made 
shark bait of.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


79 


But. Jackoo vanished up the stay again, chuckling and 
grinning in the ghostly radiance, as if he had been the 
“ Spirit of the Lamp.” The light was still there, but a cloud 
of mist, like a burst of vapour from a steam boiler, came 
down upon the gale, and flew past, when it disappeared. I 
followed the white mass as it sailed down the wind; it did 
not, as it appeared to me, vanish in the darkness, but seemed 
to remain in sight to leeward, as if checked by a sudden flaw; 
yet none of our sails were taken aback. A thought flashed 
on me. I peered still more intensely into the night. I was 
now certain. “ A sail, broad on the lee bow. ” 

The ship was in a buzz in a moment. The captain an- 
swered from the quarterdeck — “ Thank you, Mr Cringle. 
How shall we steer ? ” 

“ Keep her away a couple of points, sir, — steady. ” 

“ Steady, ” sung the man at the helm ; and the slow melan- 
choly cadence, although a familiar sound to me, now moaned 
through the rushing of the wind, and smote upon my heart 
as if it had been the wailing of a spirit. 

I turned to the boatswain, who was standing beside me — 
“ Is that, you, or Davy steering, Mr Nipper? If you had not 
been here bodily at my elbow, I could have sworn that was 
your voice ” 

When the gunner made the same remark, it startled the 
poor fellow; he tried to take it as a joke, but could not. 
“ There may be a laced hammock with a shot in it, for some 
of us ere morning. ” 

At this moment, to my dismay, the object we were chasing 
shortened, — gradually fell abeam of us, and finally disap- 
peared. “ The Flying Dutchman. ” 

“ I can’t see her at all now. ” 

“ She will be a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel that has tacked, 
sir, ” said the gunner. And sure enough, after a few seconds, 
1 saw the white object lengthen, and draw out again abaft 
our beam. 

“ The chase has tacked, sir,” I sung out; “put the helm 
down, or she will go to the windward of us.” 

We tacked also, and time it was we did so, for the rising 
moon now shewed us a large schooner under a crowd of sail. 
We edged down on her, when, finding her manoeuvre detected, 
she brailed up her flat sails, and bore up before the wind. 
This was our best point of sailing, and we cracked on, the 
captain rubbing his hands — “ It’s my turn to be the big un 
this time. ” Although blowing a strong north-wester, it was 
now clear moonlight, and we hammered away from our bow 
guns ; but whenever a shot told amongst the rigging, the 


8o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


injury was repaired as if by magic. It was evident we had 
repeatedly hulled her, from the glimmering white streaks 
along her counter and across her stern, occasioned by the 
splintering of the timber, but it seemed to produce no effect. 

At length we drew well up on her quarter. She continued 
all black hull and white sail, not a soul to be seen on deck, 
except a dark object, which we took for the man at the helm. 
“ What schooner’s that?” No answer. “ Heave-to, or I’ll 
sink you. ” Still all silent. a Sergeant Armstrong, do you 
think you could pick off that chap at the wheel ? ” The 
marine jumped on the forecastle, and levelled his piece, when 
a musket-shot from the schooner crashed through his skull, 
and he fell dead. The old skipper’s blood was up. u Fore- 
castle, there! Mr Nipper, clap a canister of grape over the 
round shot into the boat-gun, and give it to him. ’ 

“ Ay, ay, sir ! ” gleefully rejoined the boatswain, forgetting 
the augury and every thing else in the excitement of the 
moment. In a twinkling, the square foresail, topsail, top- 
gallant, royal, and studdingsail haulyards were let go by the 
run on board of the schooner, as if they had been shot away, 
and he put his helm hard aport, as if to round to. 

“ Rake him, sir, or give him the stem. He has not sur- 
rendered. I know their game. Give him your broadside, 

sir, or he is off to windward of you like a shot. No, no! 

we have him now; heave-to, Mr Splinter, heave-to!” We 
did so, and that so suddenly, that the studdingsail booms 
snapped like pipe-shanks, short off by the irons. Notwith- 
standing, we had shot two hundred yards to leeward before 
we could lay our maintopsail to the mast. I ran to wind- 
ward. The schooner’s yards and rigging were now black 
with men, clustered like bees swarming, her square-sails were 
being close furled, her fore-and-aft sails set, and away she 
was, close-hauled and dead to windward of us. 

“ So much for undervaluing our American friends, ” 
grumbled Mr Splinter. 

We made all sail in chase, blazing away to little purpose; 
we had no chance on a bowline, and when our amigo had 
satisfied himself of his superiority by one or two short tacks, 
he deliberately hauled down his flying jib and gaff- topsail, 
took a reef in his mainsail, triced up the bunt of his foresail, 
and fired his long thirty-two at us. The shot came in at the 
third aftermost port on the starboard side, and dismounted 
the carronade, smashing the slide, and wounding three men. 
The second shot missed, and as it was madness to remain to 
be peppered, probably winged, whilst every one of ours fell 
short, we reluctantly kept away on our course, having the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 81 

gratification of hearing a clear well-blown bugle on board 
the schooner play up “Yankee Doodle.” 

As the brig fell off, our long gun was run out to have a 
parting crack at her, when the third and last shot from the 
schooner struck the sill of the mid-ship port, and made the 
white splinters fly from the solid oak like bright silver sparks 
in the moonlight. A sharp piercing cry rose into the air — 
my soul identified that death-shriek with the voice that I had 
heard, and I saw the man who was standing with the lan- 
yard of the lock in his hand drop heavily across the breech, 
and discharge the gun in his fall. Thereupon a blood-red 
glare shot up into the cold blue sky, as if a volcano had burst 
forth from beneath the mighty deep, followed by a roar, and 
a shattering crash, and a mingling of unearthly cries and 
groans, and a concussion of the air, and of the water, as if 
our whole broadside had been fired at once. Then a solitary 
splash here, and a dip there, and short sharp yells, and low 
choking bubbling moans, as the hissing fragments of the 
noble vessel we had seen fell into the sea, and the last of her 
gallant crew vanished for ever beneath that pale broad moon. 
We were alone , and once more all was dark, and wild, and 
stormy. Fearfully had that ball sped, fired by a dead man’s 
hand. But what is it that clings, black and doubled, across 
that fatal cannon, dripping and heavy, and choking the 
scuppers with clotting gore, and swaying to and fro with the 
motion of the vessel, like a bloody fleece? 

“ Who is it that was hit at the gun there ? ” 

" Mr Nipper , the boatswain , sir. The last shot has cut him 
in two.” 


After this most melancholy incident we continued on our 
voyage to Jamaica, nothing particular occurring until we 
anchored at Port Royal, where we had a regular overhaul of 
the old Bark; and after this was completed, we were ordered 
down to the leeward part of the island to afford protection 
to the coasting trade. One fine morning, about a fortnight 
after we had left Port Royal, the Torch was lying at anchor 
in Bluefields Bay. It was between eight and nine; the 
land-wind had died away and the sea-breeze had not set in — 
There was not a breath stirring. The pennant from the 
masthead fell sluggishly down, and clung amongst the rig- 
ging like a dead snake, whilst the folds of the St George’s 
ensign that hung from the mizen-peak, were as motionless 
as if they had been carved in marble. 

The anchorage was one unbroken mirror, except where its 
glass-like surface was shivered into sparkling ripples by the 
gambols of the skipjack, or the flashing stoop of his enemy 


82 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the pelican ; and the reflection of the vessel was so clear and 
steady, that at the distance of a cable’s length you could 
not distinguish the water-line, nor tell where the substance 
ended and shadow began, until the casual dashing of a bucket 
overboard for a few moments broke up the phantom ship; 
but the wavering fragments soon reunited, and she again 
floated double, like the swan of the poet. The heat was so 
intense, that the iron stanchions of the awning could not 
be grasped with the hand, and where the decks were not 
screened by it, the pitch boiled out from the seams. The 
swell rolled in from the offing in long shining undulations, 
like a sea of quicksilver, whilst every now and then a flying- 
fish would spark out from the unruffled bosom of the heaving 
water, and shoot away like a silver arrow, until it dropped 
with a flash into the sea again. There was not a cloud in 
the heavens, but a quivering blue haze hung over the land, 
through which the white sugar-works and overseer’s houses 
on the distant estates appeared to twinkle like objects seen 
through a thin smoke, whilst each of the tall stems of the 
cocoa-nut trees on the beach, when looked at steadfastly, 
seemed to be turning round with a small spiral motion, like 
so many endless screws. There was a dreamy indistinctness 
about the outlines of the hills, even in the immediate vicinity, 
which increased as they receded, until the Blue Mountains 
in the horizon melted into sky. The crew were listlessly 
spinning oakum, and mending sails, under the shade of the 
awning; the only exceptions to the general languor were 
John Crow the black, and Jackoo the monkey. The former 
(who was an improvisator e of a rough stamp) sat out on the 
bowsprit, through choice, beyond the shade of the canvass, 
without hat or shirt, like a bronze bust, busy with his task, 
whatever that might be, singing at the top of his pipe, and 
between whiles confabulating with his hairy ally, as if he 
had been a messmate. The monkey was hanging by the 
tail from the dolphin-striker, admiring what John Crow 
called “ his own dam ogly face in the water. ” 

“ Tail like yours would be good ting for a sailor, Jackoo, 
it would leave his two hands free aloft — more use, more 
hornament, too, I’m sure, den de piece of greasy junk dat 
hangs from de captain’s tafferel. — Now I shall sing to you, 
how dat Corromantee rascal, my fader, was sell me on de 
Gold Coast, — 

“ Two red nightcap, one long knife. 

All him get for Quackoo, 

For gun next day him sell him wife— 

You tink dat good song, Jackoo ? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 83 

u Chockoo, cliockoo, ” chattered the monkey, as if in 
answer. 

“ Ah, you tink so — sensible honimal ! — What is dat ? 
shark? — Jackoo, come up, sir: don’t you see dat big shovel- 
nosed fis looking at you ? Pull your hand out of de water — 
Garamighty ! ” 

The negro threw himself on the gammoning of the bow- 
sprit to take hold of the poor ape, who, mistaking his kind 
intention, and ignorant of his danger, shrunk from him, lost 
his hold, and fell into the sea. The shark instantly sank to 
have a run, then dashed at his prey, raising his snout over 
him, and shooting his head and shoulders three or four feet 
out of the water, with poor Jackoo shrieking in his jaws, 
whilst his small bones crackled and crunched under the 
monster’s triple row of teeth. 

Whilst this small tragedy was acting — and painful enough 
it was to the kind-hearted negro — I was looking out towards 
the eastern horizon, watching the first dark-blue ripple of 
the sea-breeze, when a rushing noise passed over my head. 
I looked up and saw a gallinaso, the large carrion-crow of 
the tropics, sailing, contrary to the habits of its kind, sea- 
ward over the brig. I followed it with my eye, until it 
vanished in the distance, when my attention was attracted 
by a dark speck far out in the offing, with a little tiny white 
sail. With my glass I made it out to be a ship’s boat, but 
I saw no one on board, and the sail was idly flapping about 
the mast. 

On making my report, I was desired to pull towards it 
in the gig; and as we approached, one of the crew said he 
thought he saw some one peering over the bow. We drew 
nearer, and I saw him distinctly. 

“ Why don’t you haul the sheet aft, and come down to 
us, sir ? ” 

He neither moved nor answered; but as the boat rose and 
fell on the short sea raised by the first of the breeze, the face 
kept mopping and mowing at us over the gunwale. 

“ I will soon teach you manners, my fine fellow! give 
way, men” — and I fired my musket, when the crow that I 
had seen, rose from the boat into the air, but immediately 
alighted again, to our astonishment, vulture-like with out- 
stretched his wings, upon the head. 

Under the shadow of this horrible plume, the face seemed 
on the instant to alter like the hideous changes in a dream. 
It appeared to become of a death -like paleness, and anon 
streaked with blood. Another stroke of the oar — the chin 
had fallen down, and the tongue was hanging out. Another 


8 4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


pull — the eyes were gone, and from their sockets, brains 
and blood were fermenting and flowing down the cheeks;. 
It was the face of a putrefying corpse. In this floating coffin 
we found the body of another sailor, doubled across one of 
the thwarts, with a long Spanish knife sticking between his 
ribs, as if he had died in some mortal struggle, or, what was 
equally probable, had put an end to himself in his frenzy; 
whilst along the bottom of the boat, arranged with some 
show of care, and covered by a piece of canvass stretched 
across an oar above it, lay the remains of a beautiful boy, 
about fourteen years of age, apparently but a few hours 
dead. Some biscuit, a roll of jerked beef, and an earthen 
water- jar, lay beside him, shewing that hunger at least could 
have had no share in his destruction, — but the pipkin was 
dry, and the small water-cask in the bow was staved and 
empty. 

We had no sooner cast our grappling over the bow, and 
begun to tow the boat to the ship, than the abominable bird 
that we had scared settled down into it again, notwithstand- 
ing our proximity, and began to peck at the face of the dead 
boy. At this moment we heard a gibbering noise, and saw 
something like a bundle of old rags roll out from beneath the 
stern-sheets, and whatever it was, apparently make a fruit- 
less attempt to drive the gallinaso from its prey. Heaven 
and earth, what an object met our eyes ! It was a full-grown 
man, but so wasted, that one of the boys lifted him by his 
belt with one hand. His knees were drawn up to his chin, 
his hands were like the talons of a bird, while the falling 
in of his chocolate-coloured and withered features gave an 
unearthly relief to his forehead, over which the horny and 
transparent skin was braced so tightly that it seemed ready 
to crack. But in the midst of this desolation, his deep-set 
coal-black eyes sparkled like two diamonds with the fever 
of his sufferings; there was a fearful fascination in their 
flashing brightness, contrasted with the death-like aspect of 
the face, and rigidity of the frame. When sensible of our 
presence he tried to speak, but could only utter a low moan- 
ing sound. At length — “ Agua, agua” — we had not a drop 
of water in the boat. " El muchacho esta muriendo de sed — 
Agua. ” 

We got on board, and the surgeon gave the poor fellow 
some weak tepid grog. It acted like magic. He gradually 
uncoiled himself, his voice, from being weak and husky, 
became comparatively strong and clear. “El hijo — Agua 
para mi Pedrillo — No le hace para mi — Oh la noche pasado, 
la noche pasado!” He was told to compose himself, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


85 

that his hoy would be taken care of. “ Dexa me verlo entonces, 
oh Dios, dexa me verlo ” — and he crawled, grovelling on his 
chest, like a crushed worm, across the deck, until he got his 
head over the port-sill, and looked down into the boat. He 
there beheld the pale face of his dead son; it was the last 
object he ever saw — “Ay de mi!” he groaned heavily, and 
dropped his face against the ship’s side — He was dead. 

After spending several months in the service already 
alluded to, we were ordered on a cruise off the coast of 
Terra Firma. 

Morillo was at this time besieging Carthagena by land, 
while a Spanish squadron, under Admiral Enrile, blockaded 
the place by sea; and it pleased the officer who commanded 
the inshore division to conceive, while the old Torch was 
quietly beating up along the coast, that we had an intention 
of forcing the blockade. 

The night before had been gusty and tempestuous — all 
hands had been called three times, so that at last, thinking 
there was no use in going below, I lay down on the stern- 
sheets of the boat over the stern — an awkward berth 
certainly, but a spare tarpauling had that morning been 
stretched over the afterpart of the boat to dry, and I there- 
fore ensconced myself beneath it. Just before daylight, 
however, the brig, by a sudden shift of wind, was taken 
aback, and fetching stern-way, a sea struck her. How I 
escaped I never could tell, but I was pitched right in on 
deck over the poop, and much bruised, where I found a sad 
scene of confusion, with the captain and several of the officers 
in their shirts, and the men tumbling up from below as fast 
as they could — while, amongst other incidents, one of our 
passengers who occupied a small cabin under the poop, 
having gone to sleep with the stern port open, the sea had 
surged in through it with such violence as to wash him out 
on deck in his shirt, where he lay sprawling among the feet 
of the men. However, we soon got al'l right, and in five 
minutes the sloop was once more tearing through it on a 
wind; but the boat where I had been sleeping was smashed 
into staves, all that remained of her being the stem and stern- 
post dangling from the tackles at the ends of the davits. 

At this time it was gray dawn, and we were working up 
in shore, without dreaming of breaking the blockade, when 
it fell stark calm. Presently the Spanish squadron, anchored 
under Punto Canoa, perceived us, when a corvette, two 
schooners, a cutter, and eight gun-boats, got under weigh 
the latter of which soon swept close to us, ranging them- 
selves on our bows and quarters; and although we shewed 


86 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


our colours, and made the private international signal, they 
continued tiring at us for about an hour, without, however, 
doing any damage, as they had chosen a wary distance. At 
length some of the shot falling near us, the skipper cleared 
for action, and with his own hand fired a 32-pounder at the 
nearest gun-boat, the crew of which bobbed as if they had 
seen the shot coming. This opened the eyes of the Dons, 
who thereupon ceased firing; and as a light breeze had now 
set down, they immediately made sail in pursuit of a schooner 
that had watched the opportunity of their being employed 
with us to run in under the walls, and was at this moment 
chased by a ship and a gun-boat, who had got within gun- 
shot, and kept up a brisk fire on her. So soon as the others 
came up, all hands opened on the gallant little hooker who 
was forcing the blockade, and peppered away; and there 
she was like a hare, with a whole pack of harriers after her, 
sailing and sweeping in under their fire towards the doomed 
city. As the wind was very light, the blockading squadron 
now manned their boats, and some of them were coming 
fast up, when a rattle of musketry from the small craft sent 
them to the right about, and presently the chase was safely 
at anchor under the battery of Santa Catalina. 

But the fun was to come — for by this time some of the 
vessels that had held her in chase, had got becalmed under 
the batteries, which immediately opened on them cheerily; 
and down came a topgallant-mast here, and a topsail-yard 
there, and a studdingsail t’other place — and such a squealing 
and creaking of blocks, and rattling of the gear — while 
yards braced hither and thither, and toppinglifts let go, and 
sheets let fly, shewed that the Dons were in a sad quandary; 
and no wonder, for we could see the shot from the long 
32-pounders on the walls, falling very thick all around 
several of them. However, at four p. M. we had worked up 
alongside of the Commodore, when the old skipper gave 
our friend such a rating, that I don’t think he will ever 
forget it. 

On the day following our being fired at, I was sent, being 
a good Spaniard, along with the second lieutenant — poor 
Treenail — to Morillo’s headquarters. We got an order to 
the officer commanding the nearest post on shore, to provide 
us with horses; but before reaching it, we had to walk, 
under a roasting sun, about two miles through miry roads, 
until we arrived at the barrier, where we found a detachment 
of artillery, but the commanding officer could only give us 
one poor broken-winded horse, and a jackass, on which we 
were to proceed to headquarters on the morrow; and here. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


87 

under a thatched hut of the most primitive construction, 
consisting simply of cross sticks and palm branches, we had 
to spend the night, the poor fellows being as kind as their 
own misery would let them. 

Next morning we proceeded, accompanied by a hussar, 
through dreadful roads, where the poor creatures we bestrode 
sunk to the belly at every flounder, until about four p. M., 
when we met two negroes, and found, to our great distress, 
that the soldier who was our guide and escort, had led us out 
of our way, and that we were in very truth then travelling 
towards the town. We therefore hove-about and returned 
to Palanquillo, a village that we had passed through that 
very morning, leaving the hussar and his horse sticking fast 
in a slough. We arrived about nightfall, and, as the village 
was almost entirely deserted, we were driven to take up our 
quarters in an old house, that seemed formerly to have been 
used as a distillery. Here we found a Spanish lieutenant 
and several soldiers quartered, all of them suffering more or 
less from dysentery; and after passing a very comfortless 
night on hard benches, we rose at gray dawn, with our 
hands and faces blistered from musquitto bites, and our hair 
full of wood ticks, or garapatos. We again started on our 
journey to headquarters, and finally arrived at Torrecilla at 
two o’clock in the afternoon. Both the commander-in-chief, 
Morillo, and Admiral Enrile, had that morning proceeded 
to the works at Boca Chica, so we only found El Senor 
Montalvo, the captain-general of the province, a little kiln- 
dried diminutive Spaniard. Morillo used to call him “ uno 
moneco Creollo,” but withal he was a gentleman-like man in 
his manners. 

He received us very civilly; we delivered our despatches; 
and the same evening we made our bow, and having obtained 
fresh horses, set out on our return, and arrived at the village 
of Santa Rosa at nine at night, where we slept; and next 
morning continuing on our journey, we got once more safely 
on board of the old brig at twelve o’clock at noon, in a 
miserable plight, not having had our clothes off for three 
days. As for me I was used to roughing it, and in my 
humble equipment any disarrangement was not particularly 
discernible ; but in poor Treenail, one of the nattiest 
fellows in the service, it was a very different matter. He 
had issued forth on the enterprise, cased in tight blue 
pantaloons that fitted him like his skin, over which were 
drawn long well-polished Hessian boots, each with a for- 
midable tassel at top, and his coat was buttoned close up to 
the chin, with a blazing swab on the right shoulder, while 


88 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


a laced cocked hat and dress sword completed his equipment. 
But, alas! when we were accounted for on board of the old 
Torch, there was a fearful dilapidation of his external man. 
First of all, his inexpressibles were absolutely torn into 
shreds by the briers and prickly bushes through which we 
had been travelling, and fluttered from his waistband like the 
stripes we see depending from an ancient Roman or Grecian 
coat of armour; his coat had only one skirt, and the bullion 
of the epaulet was reduced to a strand or two, while the tag 
that held the brim, or flaps of the cocked hat up, had given 
way, so that although he looked fierce enough, stem on, still, 
when you had a stern view, the after part hung down his 
back like the tail of the hat of one of Landseer’s flying 
dustmen. 

After this, we experienced, with little intermission, most 
dreadful weather for two weeks, until at length we were 
nearly torn in pieces, and the captain was about abandoning 
his ground, and returning to Port Royal, when it came on to 
blow with redoubled violence. We- struggled against it for 
twelve hours, but were finally obliged to heave-to, the sea 
all the while running tremendously high. 

About noon on the day I speak of, the weather had begun 
to look a little better, but the sea had if any thing increased. 
I had just come on deck, when Mr Splinter sung out — 
“Look out for that sea, quartermaster! — Mind your star- 
board helm ! — Ease her, man — ease her ! ” 

On it came, rolling as high as the foreyard, and tumbled 
in over the bows, green, clear, and unbroken. It filled the 
deep waist of the Torch in an instant, and as I rose half 
smothered in the midst of a jumble of men, pigs, hencoops, 
and spare spars, I had nearly lost an eye by a floating board- 
ing-pike that was lanced at me by the jaugle of the water. 
As for the boats on the booms, they had all gone to sea 
separately, and were bobbing at us in a squadron to leeward, 
the launch acting as commodore, with a crew of a dozen 
sheep, whose bleating as she rose on the crest of a wave came 
back upon us, faintly blending with the hoarse roaring of 
the storm, and seeming to cry, “No more mutton for you, 
my boys ! ” 

At length the lee ports were forced out — the pumps 
promptly rigged and manned — buckets slung and at work 
down the hatchways; and although we had narrowly escaped 
being swamped, and it continued to blow hard, with a heavy 
sea, the men, confident in the qualities of the ship, worked 
with glee, shaking their feathers, and quizzing each other. 
But anon a sudden and appalling change came over the sea 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


89 

and the sky, that made the stoutest among us quail and 
draw his breath thick. The firmament darkened — the 
horizon seemed to contract — the sea became black as ink — 
the wind fell to a dead calm — the teeming clouds descended 
and filled the murky arch of heaven with their whirling 
masses, until they appeared to touch our mast-heads, but 
there .was neither lightning nor rain, not one glancing flash, 
not one refreshing drop — the windows of the sky had 
been sealed by Him who had said to the storm, “ Peace, 
be still.” 

During this death-like pause, infinitely more awful than 
the heaviest gale, every sound on board, the voices of the 
men, even the creaking of the bulkheads, was heard with 
startling distinctness ; and the water-logged brig, having 
no wind to steady her, laboured so heavily in the trough of 
the sea, that we expected her masts to go overboard every 
moment. 

“ Do you see and hear that, sir ? ” said Lieutenant Treenail 
to the captain. 

We all looked eagerly forth in the direction indicated. 
There was a white line in fearful contrast with the clouds 
and the rest of the ocean, gleaming on the extreme verge of 
the horizon — it grew broader — a low increasing growl was 
heard — a thick blinding mist came driving up a-stern of us, 
whose small drops pierced into the skin like sharp hail. 

“ Is it rain ? ” 

“No, no — salt, salt.” 

And now the fierce Spirit of the Hurricane himself, the 
sea Azrael, in storm and in darkness, came thundering on 
with stunning violence, tearing off the snowy scalps of the 
tortured billows, and with tremendous and sheer force, crush- 
ing down beneath his chariot wheels their mountainous and 
howling ridges into one level plain of foaming water. Our 
chainplates, strong fastenings, and clenched bolts, drew like 
pliant wires, shrouds and stays were torn away like the sum- 
mer gossamer, and our masts and spars, crackling before his 
fury like dry reeds in autumn, were blown clean out of the 
ship, over her bows, into the sea. 

Had we shewn a shred of the strongest sail in the vessel, 
it would have been blown out of the bolt-rope in an instant; 
we had, therefore, to get her before the wind, by crossing a 
spar on the stump of the foremast, with four men at the 
wheel, one watch at the pumps, and the other clearing the 
wreck. But our spirits were soon dashed, when the old 
carpenter, one of the coolest and bravest men in the ship, 
rose through the forehatch, pale as a ghost, with his white 


90 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


hairs steaming straight out in the wind. He did not speak 
to any of us, but clambered aft, toward the capstan, to which 
the captain had lashed himself. 

“ The water is rushing in forward like a mill-stream, sir; 
we have either started a butt, or the wreck of the foremast 
has gone through her bows, for she is fast settling down by 
the head.” 

“ Get the boatswain to f other a sail then, man, and try it 
over the leak ; but don’t alarm the people, Mr Kelson.” 

The brig was, indeed, rapidly losing her buoyancy, and, 
when the next heavy sea rose a-head of us, she gave a drunken 
sickening lurch, and pitched right into it, groaning and trem- 
bling in every plank, like a guilty and condemned thing, in 
the prospect of impending punishment. 

“ Stand by, to heave the guns overboard.” 

Too late, too late — oh God, that cry, — I was stunned and 
drowning, a chaos of wreck was beneath me, and around me, 
and above me, and blue agonized gasping faces, and strug- 
gling arms, and colourless clutching hands, and despairing 
yells for help, where help was impossible ; when I felt a sharp 
bite on the neck, and breathed again. My Newfoundland dog. 
Sneezer, had snatched at me, and dragged me out of the eddy 
of the sinking vessel. 

For life, for dear life, nearly suffocated amidst the hissing 
spray, we reached the cutter, the dog and his helpless master. 
******* 

For three miserable days, I had been exposed, half -naked 
and bareheaded, in an open boat, without water, or food, or 
shade. The third fierce cloudless West Indian noon was long 
passed, and once more the dry burning sun sank in the west, 
like a red-hot shield of iron. In my horrible extremity, I im- 
precated the wrath of Heaven on my defenceless head, and 
shaking my clenched hands against the brazen sky, I called 
aloud on the Almighty, “ Oh, let me neveiv see him rise 
again ! ” I glared on the noble dog, as he lay dying at the 
bottom of the boat ; madness seized me, I tore his throat with 
my teeth, not for food, but that I might drink his hot blood — 
it flowed, and, vampire-like, I would have gorged myself; but 
as he turned his dull, gray, glazing eye on me, the pulses of 
my heart stopped, and I fell senseless. 

When my recollection returned, I was stretched on some 
fresh plantain leaves, in a low smoky hut, with my faithful 
dog lying beside me, whining and licking my hands and face. 
On the rude joists that bound the rafters of the roof together, 
rested a light canoe with its paddles, and over against me, 
on the wall, hung some Indian fishing implements, and a 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


91 


long-barrelled Spanish gun. Underneath lay a corpse, 
wrapped in a boat-sail, on which was clumsily written, with 
charcoal, — “ The body of John Deadeye, Esq. late Com- 
mander of his Britannic Majesty’s Sloop, Torch.” 

There was a fire on the floor, at which Lieutenant Splinter, 
in his shirt and trowsers, drenched, unshorn, and death-like, 
was roasting a joint of meat, whilst a dwarfish Indian, stark 
naked, sat opposite to him, squatting on his hams, more like a 
large bull-frog than a man, and fanning the flame with a palm 
leaf. In the dark corner of the hut half a dozen miserable 
sheep shrunk huddled together. Through the open door I 
saw the stars in the deep blue heaven, and the cold beams of 
the newly risen moon were dancing in a long flickering wake 
of silver light on the ever-heaving bosom of the ocean, whilst 
the melancholy murmur of the surf breaking on the shore, 
came booming on the gentle night wind. I was instantly per- 
suaded that I had been nourished during my delirium; for 
the fierceness of my sufferings was assuaged, and I was com- 
paratively strong. I anxiously inquired of the lieutenant the 
fate of our shipmates. 

“ All gone down in the old Torch; and had it not been for 
the launch and our four-footed friends there, I should not 
have been here to have told it ; but raw mutton with the wool 
on, is not a mess to thrive on, Tom. All that the sharks have 
left of the captain and five seamen came ashore last night. 
I have buried the poor fellows on the beach where they lay as 
well as I could, with an oar-blade for a shovel, and the bronze 
ornament there [pointing to the Indian] for an assistant.” 

Here he looked towards the body; and the honest fellow’s 
voice shook as he continued. 

“ But seeing you were alive, I thought if you did recover, 
it would be gratifying to both of us, after having weathered 
it so long with him through gale and sunshine, to lay the 
kind-hearted old man’s head on its everlasting pillow as de- 
cently as our forlorn condition permitted.” 

As the lieutenant spoke. Sneezer seemed to think his watch 
was up, and drew off towards the fire. Clung and famished, 
the poor brute could no longer resist the temptation, but, mak- 
ing a desperate snatch at the joint, bolted through the door 
with it, hotly pursued by the Bull-frog. 

“ Drop the leg of mutton, Sneezer,” roared the lieutenant, 
“ drop the mutton— drop it, sir, drop it, drop it.” And away 
raced his Majesty’s officer in pursuit of the canine pirate. 

After a little, he and the Indian returned, the former with 
the joint in his hand ; and presently the dog stole into the hut 
after them, and patiently lay down in a corner, until the lieu- 


92 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


tenant good-humouredly threw the bone to him after our 
comfortless meal had been finished. 

I was so weak, that my shipmate considerately refrained 
from pressing his society on me ; and we, therefore, all betook 
ourselves to rest for the night. 


CHAPTER IV 

SCENES ON THE COSTA FIRME 
“Here lies a sheer hulk, poor Tom Bowline.” 

I was awakened by the low growling, and short bark of the 
dog. The night was far spent; the tiny sparks of the fire- 
flies that were glancing in the doorway began to grow pale; 
the chirping of the crickets and lizards, and the snore of the 
tree-toad, waxed fainter, and the wild cry of the tiger-cat was 
no longer heard. The terral , or land wind, which is usually 
strongest towards morning, moaned loudly on the hillside, 
and came rushing past with a melancholy sough , through the 
brushwood that surrounded the hut, shaking off the heavy 
dew from the palm and cocoa-nut trees, like large drops of 
rain. 

The hollow tap of the woodpecker; the clear flute-note of 
the pavo del monte ; the discordant shriek of the macaw; the 
shrill chirr of the wild guinea fowl; and the chattering of 
the paroquets, began to be heard from the wood. The ill- 
omened gallinaso was sailing and circling round the hut, and 
the tall flamingo was stalking on the shallows of the lagoon, 
the haunt of the disgusting alligator, that lay beneath, divided 
from the sea by a narrow mud-bank, where a group of peli- 
cans, perched on the wreck of one of our boats, were pluming 
themselves before taking wing. In the east, the deep blue 
of the Armament, from which the lesser stars were fast fad- 
ing, all but the “ Eye of Morn,” was warming into magnifi- 
cent purple, and the amber rays of the yet unrisen sun were 
shooting up, streamer like, with intervals between, through 
the parting clouds, as they broke away with a passing shower, 
that fell like a veil of silver gauze between us and the first 
primrose-coloured streaks of a tropical dawn. 

“ That’s a musket shot,,”' said the lieutenant. The Indian 
crept on his belly to the door, dropped his chin on the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


93 


ground, and placed his open palms behind his ears. The dis- 
tant wail of a bugle was heard, then three or four dropping 
shots again, in rapid succession. Mr Splinter stooped to go 
forth, but the Indian caught him by the leg, uttering the 
single word “ Espanoles.” 

On the instant, a young Indian woman, with a shrieking 
infant in her arms, rushed to the door. There was a blue 
gunshot wound in her neck, from which two or three large 
black clotting gouts of blood were trickling. Her long black 
hair was streaming in coarse braids, and her features were 
pinched and sharpened, as if in the agony of death. She 
glanced wildly behind, and gasped out, (e Escapa, Oreeque , 
escapa, para mi soi muerto ya.” Another shot, and the miser- 
able creature convulsively clasped her child, whose small 
shrill cry I often fancy I hear to this hour blending with its 
mother’s death-shriek, and falling backwards, rolled over the 
brow of the hill out of sight. The ball had pierced the heart 
of the parent through the body of her offspring. By this time 
a party of Spanish soldiers had surrounded the hut, one of 
whom, kneeling before the low door, pointed his musket into 
it. The Indian, who had seen his wife and child thus cruelly 
shot down before his face, now fired his rifle, and the man fell 
dead. “ Siga mi Querida Bondia — maldito” Then spring- 
ing to his feet, and stretching himself to his full height, with 
his arms extended towards Heaven, while a strong shiver 
shook him like an ague fit, he yelled forth the last words he 
ever uttered, “ V eng a la suerte, ya soi listo ” and resumed his 
squatting position on the ground. 

Half a dozen musket balls were now fired at random 
through the wattles of the hut, while the lieutenant, who 
spoke Spanish well, sung out lustily, that we were English 
officers who had been shipwrecked. 

“ Mentira” growled the officer of the party, <e Piratas son 
nstedes” “Pirates leagued with Indian bravoes; fire the 
hut, soldiers, and burn the scoundrels ! ” 

There was no time to be lost ; Mr Splinter made a vigourous 
attempt to get out, in which I seconded him with all the 
strength that remained to me, but they beat us back again 
with the butts of their muskets. 

“ Where are your commissions, your uniforms, if you be 
British officers?” — We had neither, and our fate appeared 
inevitable. 

The doorway was filled with brushwood, fire was set to the 
hut, and we heard the crackling of the palm thatch, while 
thick stifling wreaths of white smoke burst in upon us 
through the roof. 


94 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Lend a hand, Tom, now or never, and kick up the dark 
man there;” but he sat still as a statue. We laid our shoul- 
ders to the end wall, and heaved at it with all our might; 
when we were nearly at the last gasp it gave way, and we 
rushed headlong into the middle of the party, followed by 
Sneezer with his shaggy coat, that was full of clots of tar, 
blazing like a torch. He unceremoniously seized “par le 
queue,” the soldier who had throttled me, setting fire to the 
skirts of his coat, and blowing upjiis cartouche-box. I be- 
lieve, under Providence, that the ludicrousness of this attack 
saved us from being bayoneted on the spot. It gave time for 
Mr Splinter to recover his breath, when, being a powerful 
man, he shook off the two soldiers who had seized him, and 
dashed into the burning hut again. I thought he was mad, 
especially when I saw him return with his clothes and hair 
on fire, dragging out the body of the captain. He unfolded 
the sail it was wrapped in, and pointing to the remains of 
the naval uniform in which the mutilated and putrefying 
corpse was dressed, he said sternly to the officer, — “ We are 
in your power, and you may murder us if you will; but that 
was my captain four days ago, and you see at least he was 
a British officer — satisfy yourself.” The person he addressed, 
a handsome young Spaniard, with a clear olive complexion, 
oval face, small brown mustaches, and a large black eyes , 
shuddered at the horrible spectacle, but did as he was re- 
quested. 

When he saw the crown and anchor, and his Majesty’s 
cipher on the appointments of the dead officer, he became 
convinced of our quality, and changed his tone — “ Es verdad , 
son de la marina Englesa. But, gentlemen, were there not 
three persons in the hut ? ” 

There were indeed — the flames had consumed the dry roof 
and walls with incredible rapidity, which by this time had 
fallen in, but Oreeque was nowhere to be seen. I thought I 
saw something move in the midst of the fire, but it might have 
been fancy. Again the white ashes heaved, and a half-con- 
sumed hand and arm were thrust through the smouldering 
mass, then a human head, with the scalp burnt from the 
skull, and the flesh from the scalp and cheekbones; the trunk 
next appeared, the bleeding ribs laid bare, and the miserable 
Indian, with his limbs like scorched rafters, stood upright be- 
fore us, like a demon in the midst of the fire. He made no 
attempt to escape, but reeling to and fro like a drunken man, 
fell headlong, raising clouds of smoke and a shower of sparks 
in his fall. Alas ! poor Oreeque, the newly risen sun was now 
shining on your ashes, and on the dead bodies of the ill- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


95 

starred Bondia and her child, whose bones, ere his setting, 
the birds of the air, and beasts of the forest, will leave as 
white and fleshless as your own. 

The officer, who belonged to the army investing Carthagena, 
now treated us with great civility; he heard our story, and 
desired his men to assist us in burying the remains of our 
late commander. 

We remained all day on the same part of the coast, but 
towards evening the party fell back on the outpost to which 
they belonged — after travelling an hour or so we emerged from 
a dry river course, in which the night had overtaken us, and 
came suddenly on a small plateau, where the post was estab- 
lished on the promontory of “ Punto Canoa” There may be 
braver soldiers at a charge, although that I doubt, if they be 
properly led, but none more picturesque in a bivouac than 
the Spanish. A gigantic wild cotton-tree, to which our largest 
English oaks would have been but as dwarfs, rose on one side, 
and overshadowed the whole level space. The bright beams 
of the full moon glanced among the topmost leaves, and 
tipped the higher branches with silver, contrasting strangely 
with the scene below, where a large watch-fire cast a strong 
red glare on the surrounding objects, throwing up dense 
volumes of smoke, which eddied in dun wreaths amongst the 
foliage, and hung in the still night air like a canopy, about 
ten feet from the ground, leaving the space beneath compara- 
tively clear. 

A temporary guard-house, with a rude verandah of bam- 
boos and palm leaves, had been built between two of the 
immense spurs of the mighty tree, that shot out many yards 
from the parent stem like wooden buttresses, whilst overhead 
there was a sort of stage, made of planks laid across the lower 
boughs, supporting a quantity of provisions covered with 
tarpaulins. The sentries in the background with their glanc- 
ing arms, were seen pacing on their watch ; some of the guard 
were asleep on wooden benches, and on the platform 
amongst the branches, where a little baboon-looking old man, 
in the dress of a drummer, had perched himself, and sat play- 
ing a Biscayan air on a sort of bagpipe ; others were gathered 
round the fire, cooking their food, or cleaning their arms. It 
shone brightly on the long line of Spanish transports that 
were moored below, stem on to the beach, and on the white 
■ sails of the armed craft that were still hovering under 
weigh in the offing, which, as the night wore on, stole in, one 
after another, like phantoms of the ocean, and letting go their 
anchors with a splash, and a hollow rattle of the cable, re- 
mained still and silent like the rest. Farther off, it fell in a 


96 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


crimson stream on the surface of the sheltered bay, struggling 
with the light of the gentle moon, and tinging with blood the 
small waves that twinkled in her silver wake, across which a 
guard boat would now and then glide, like a fairy thing, the 
arms of the men flashing back the red light. 

Beyond the influence of the hot smoky glare, the glorious 
planet reassumed her sway in the midst of her attendant stars, 
and the relieved eye wandered forth into the loveiy night, 
where the noiseless sheet-lightning was glancing, and ever and 
anon lighting up for an instant some fantastic shape in the 
fleecy clouds, like prodigies forerunning the destruction of 
the stronghold over which they impended; while beneath, the 
lofty ridge of the convent-crowned Popa, the citadel of San 
Felipe bristling with cannon, the white batteries and many 
towers of the fated city of Carthagena, and the Spanish 
blockading squadron at anchor before it, slept in the moon- 
light. 

We were civilly received by the captain, who apologized 
for the discomfort under which we must pass the night. He 
gave us the best he had, and that was bad enough, both of 
food and wine, before shewing us into the hut, where we found 
a rough deal coffin lying on the very bench that was to be our 
bed. This he ordered away with all the coolness in the world. 

“ It was only one of his people who had died that morning of 
vomito, or yellow fever.” 

“ Comfortable country this,” quoth Splinter, “ and a pleas- 
ant morning we have had of it, Tom ! ” 

Next morning, we proceeded towards the Spanish head- 
quarters, provided with horses through the kindness of the 
captain of the outpost, and preceded by a guide on an ass. 
He was a moreno, or man of colour, who, in place of bestrid- 
ing his beast, gathered his limbs under him, and sat cross- 
legged on it like a tailor ; so that when you saw the two “ end 
on,” the effect was laughable enough, the flank and tail of the 
ass appearing to constitute the lower part of the man, as if 
he had been a sort of composite animal, like the ancient 
satyr. The road traversed a low swampy country, from which 
the rank moisture arose in a hot palpable mist, and crossed 
several shallow lagoons, from two to six feet deep, of tepid, 
muddy, brackish water, some of them half a mile broad, and 
swarming with wild waterfowl. On these occasions, our friend 
the Satyr was signalled to make sail ahead on his donkey to 
pilot us ; and as the water deepened, he would betake himself to 
swimming in its wake, holding on by the tail, and shouting, 

“ Cuiclado Burrico, Cuidado que no te ahogas ” 

While passing through the largest of these, we noticed 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


97 


several calabashes about pistol-shot on our right; and as we 
fancied one of them bobbed now and then, it struck me they 
might be Indian fishing-boats. To satisfy my curiosity, I 
hauled my wind, and leaving the track we were on, swam 
my horse towards the group. The two first that I lifted had 
nothing attached to them, but proved to be mere empty 
gourds floating before the wind ; but when I tried to seize the 
largest, it eluded my grasp in a most incomprehensible man- 
ner, and slid away astern of me with a curious hollow gab- 
bling sort of noise, whereupon my palfrey snorted and reared, 
and nearly capsized me over his bows. What a noble fish, 
thought I, as I tacked in chase, but my Bucephalus refused to 
face it. I therefore bore up to join my companions again; 
but in requital of the disappointment, smashed the gourd in 
passing with the stick I held in my hand, when, to my un- 
utterable surprise, and amidst shouts of laughter from our 
moreno, the head and shoulders of an Indian, with a quantity 
of sedges tied round his neck, and buoyed up by half-a-dozen 
dead teal fastened by the legs to his girdle, started up before 
me. “Ave Maria, purisima! you have broken my head, 
senor.” But as the vegetable helmet had saved his skull, of 
itself possibly none of the softest, a small piece of money 
spliced the feud between us; and as he fitted his pate with 
another calabash, preparatory to resuming his cruise, he 
joined in our merriment, although from a different cause. — 
“ What can these English simpletons see so very comical in a 
poor Indian catching wild-ducks ? ” 

Shortly after, we entered a forest of magnificent trees, 
whose sombre shade, on first passing from the intolerable 
glare of the sun, seemed absolute darkness. The branches 
were alive with innumerable tropical birds and insects, and 
were laced together by a thick tracery of withes, along which 
a guana would occasionally dart, coming nearest of all the 
reptiles I had seen to the shape of the fabled dragon. 

But how different from the clean stems and beautiful green 
sward of our English woods! Here, you were confined to a 
quagmire by impervious underwood of prickly pear, penguin, 
and speargrass; and when we rode under the drooping 
branches of the trees, that the leaves might brush away the 
halo of musquitoes, flying ants, and other winged plagues 
that buzzed about our temples, we found, to our dismay, that 
we had made bad worse by the introduction of a whole colony 
of garapatos, or wood-ticks, into our eyebrows and hair. At 
length, for the second time, so far as I was concerned, we 
reached the headquarters at Torrecilla, and were well received 
by the Spanish commander-in-chief, a tall, good-looking, sol- 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 


98 

dierlike man, whose personal qualities had an excellent foil in 
the captain-general of the province, an old friend of mine, 
as already mentioned, and who certainly looked full as like a 
dancing-master, or, at the best, perruquier en general to the 
staff, as a viceroy. 

General Morillo, however, had a great share of Sancho 
Panza shrewdness, and I will add kindness, about him. We 
were drenched and miserable when we arrived, yet he might 
have turned us over, naturally enough, to the care of his 
staff. No such thing; the first thing he did was to walk both 
of us behind a canvass screen, that shut off one end of the 
large barn-like room, where a long table was laid for dinner. 
This was his sleeping apartment, and drawing out of a leather 
bag two suits of uniform, he rigged us almost with his own 
hands. Presently a point of war was sounded by half-a-dozen 
trumpeters, and Splinter and I made our appearance, each in 
the dress of a Spanish general. The party consisted of 
Morillo’s personal staff, the captain-general, the enquisidor- 
general, and several colonels and majors of different regi- 
ments. In all, twenty people sat down to dinner; among 
whom were several young Spanish noblemen, some of whom 
I had met on my former visit, who, having served in the 
Peninsular war under the great Duke, made their advances 
with great cordiality. Strange enough — Splinter and I were 
the only parties present in uniform; all the others, priests and 
soldiers, were clothed in gingham coats and white trowsers. 

The besieging force at this time was composed of about 
five thousand Spaniards, as fine troops as I ever saw, and 
three thousand Creoles, under the command of that desperate 
fellow Morales. I was not long in recognizing an old friend 
of mine in the person of Captain Bayer, an aide-de-camp of 
Morillo, amongst the company. He was very kind and at- 
tentive, and rather startled me by speaking very tolerable 
English now, from a kindly motive I make no question, 
whereas, when I had known him before in Kingston, he 
professed to speak nothing but Spanish or French. He was 
a German by birth, and lived to rise to the rank of colonel in 
the Spanish army, where he subsequently greatly distin- 
guished himself, but he at length fell in some obscure skir- 
mish in New Granada; and my old ally Morillo, Count of 
Garthagena, is now living in penury, an exile in Paris. 

After being, as related, furnished with food and raiment, 
we retired to our quatres, a most primitive sort of couch, 
being a simple wooden frame, with a piece of canvass stretched 
over it. However, if we had no mattrasses, we had none of 
the disagreeables often incidental to them, and fatigue proved 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


99 


a good opiate, for we slept soundly until the drums and 
trumpets of the troops, getting under arms, awoke us at day- 
light. The army was under weigh to occupy Carthagena, 
which had fallen through famine, and we had no choice but 
to accompany it. 

I knew nothing of the misery of a siege but by description ; 
the reality even to me, case-hardened as I was by my own 
recent sufferings, was dreadful. We entered by the gate of 
the raval, or suburb. There was not a living thing to be seen 
in the street ; the houses had been pulled down, that the fire of 
the place might not be obstructed in the event of a lodgment 
in the outwork. We passed on, the military music echoing 
mournfully amongst the ruined walls, to the main gate, or 
Puerto de Tier a, which was also open, and the drawbridge 
lowered. Under the archway, we saw a delicate female, worn 
to the bone, and weak as an infant, gathering garbage of the 
most loathsome description, the possession of which had been 
successfully disputed by a carrion crow. A little farther on, 
the bodies of an old man and two small children were putre- 
fying in the sun, while beside them lay a miserable, wasted, 
dying negro, vainly endeavouring to keep at a distance with a 
palm branch a number of the same obscene birds that were 
already devouring the carcass of one of the infants; before 
two hours, the faithful servant and those he attempted to de- 
fend, were equally the prey of the disgusting gallinaso. The 
houses, as we proceeded, appeared entirely deserted, except 
where a solitary spectre-like inhabitant appeared at a bal- 
cony, and feebly exclaimed, “ Viva los Espanoles! Viva Fer- 
nando Septimo ! ” — We saw no domestic animal whatsoever, 
not even a cat or a dog; but I will not dwell on these horrible 
details any longer. 

One morning, shortly after our arrival, as we strolled be- 
yond the land gate, we came to a place where four banquillos 
(a sort of short bench or stool, with an upright post at one 
end firmly fixed into the ground) were placed opposite a dead 
wall. They were painted black, and we were not left long 
in suspense as to their use; for solemn music, and the roll of 
muffled drums in the distance, were fearful indications of 
what we were to witness. 

First came an entire regiment of Spanish infantry, which, 
filing off, formed three sides of a square, — the wall near 
which the banquillos were placed forming the fourth; then 
eight priests, and as many choristers, chanting the service for 
the dying; next came several mounted officers of the staff, 
and four firing parties of. twelve men each. Three Spanish- 
American prisoners followed, dressed in white, with crucifixes 


IOO 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


in their hands, each supported, more dead than alive, by two 
priests; but when the fourth victim appeared, we could 
neither look at nor think of anything else. 

On inquiry we found he was an Englishman, of the name 

of S ; English, that is, in all except the place of his birth, 

for his whole education had been English, as were his parents 
and all his family ; but it came out, accidentally I believe, on 
his trial, that he had been born at Buenos Ayres, and having 
joined the patriots, this brought treason home to him, which 
he was now led forth to expiate. Whilst his fellow-sufferers 
appeared crushed down to the very earth, under their intense 
agony, so that they had to be supported as they tottered to- 
wards the place of execution, he stepped firmly and manfully 
■out, and seemed impatient when at any time, from the 
crowding in front, the procession was obliged to halt. At 
length they reached the fatal spot, and his three companions 
in misery being placed astride on the banquillos, their arms 
were twisted round the upright posts, and fastened to them 

with cords, their backs being towards the soldiers. Mr S 

walked firmly up to the vacant bench, knelt down, and cov- 
ering his face with his hands, rested his head on the edge of 
it. For a brief space he seemed to be engaged in prayer, 
during which he sobbed audibly, but soon recovering himself, 
he rose, and folding his arms across his breast, sat down 
slowly and deliberately on the banquillo, facing the firing 
party with an unshrinking eye. 

He was now told that he must turn his back and submit 
to be tied like the others. He resisted this, but on force being 
attempted to be used, he sprung to his feet, and stretching 
out his hand, while a dark red flush passed transiently across 
his pale face, he exclaimed in a loud voice, “ Thus, thus, and 
not otherwise, you may butcher me, but I am an Englishman 
and no traitor, nor will I die the death of one.” Moved by 
his gallantry, the soldiers withdrew, and left him standing. 
At this time the sun was intensely hot, it was high noon, 

and the monk who attended Mr S held an umbrella over 

his head; but the preparations being completed, he kissed 
him on both cheeks, while the hot tears trickled down his 
own, and was stepping back, when the unhappy man said to 
him, with the most perfect composure, " Todavia padre, to- 
davia, mucho me gusta la sombra.” But the time had ar- 
rived, the kind-hearted monk was obliged to retire. The 
signal was given, the musketry rattled, and they were as clods 
of the valley — “Truly,” quoth old Splinter, “a man does 
sometimes become a horse by being born in a stable.” 

Some time after this we were allowed to go to the village 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


IOI 


of Turbaco, a few miles distant from the city, for change of 
air. On the third morning after our arrival, about the dawn- 
ing,. I was suddenly awakened by a shower of dust on my 
face, and a violent shaking of the bed, accompanied by a low 
grumbling unearthly noise, which seemed to pass immedi- 
ately under where I lay. Were I to liken it to anything I 
had ever experienced before, it would be to the lumbering and 
tremor of a large waggon in a tempestuous night, heard and 
felt through the thin walls of a London house. — Like — yet 
how fearfully different ! 

In a few seconds the motion ceased, and the noise gradually 
died away in hollow echoes in the distance — whereupon en- 
sued such a crowing of cocks, cackling of geese, barking of 
dogs, lowing of kine, neighing of horses, and shouting of men, 
women, and children, amongst the negro and coloured do- 
mestics, as baffles all description, whilst the various white in- 
mates of the house (the rooms, for air and coolness, being 
without ceiling, and simply divided by partitions run up 
about ten feet high) were, one and all, calling to their ser- 
vants and each other, in accents which did not by any means 
evince great composure. In a moment this hubbub again 
sank into the deepest silence — man, and the beasts of the 
field, and the fowls of the air, became mute with breathless 
awe, at the impending tremendous manifestation of the power 
of that Almighty Being in whose hands the hills are as a 
very little thing — for the appalling voice of the earthquake 
was once more heard growling afar off, like distant thunder 
mingling with the rushing of a mighty wind, waxing louder 
and louder as it approached, and upheaving the sure and 
firm-set earth into long undulations, as if its surface had 
been the rolling swell of the fathomless ocean. The house 
rocked, pictures of saints fell from the walls, tables and 
chairs were overturned, the window frames were forced out 
of their embrazures and broken in pieces, beams and rafters 
groaned and screamed, crushing the tiles of the roof into ten 
thousand fragments. In several places the ground split open 
into chasms a fathom wide, with an explosion like a cannon- 
shot; the very foundation of the house seemed to be sinking 
under us; and whilst men and women rushed like maniacs 
naked into the fields, with a yell as if the Day of Judgment 
had arrived, and the whole brute creation, in an agony of 
fear, made the most desperate attempts to break forth from 
their enclosures into the open air, the end wall of my apart- 
ment was shaken down; and falling outwards with a deafen- 
ing crash, disclosed, in the dull gray mysterious twilight of 
morning, the huge gnarled trees that overshadowed the build- 


102 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ing, bending and groaning, amidst clouds of dust, as if they 
had been tormented by a tempest, although the air was calm 
and motionless as death. 


CHAPTER V 

THE PICCAROON 

“ Ours the wild life in tumult still to range.” 

The Corsair. 

Some time after this, we once more returned to Cartha- 
gena, to be at hand should any opportunity occur for Jamaica, 
and were lounging about one forenoon on the fortifications, 
looking with sickening hearts out to seaward, when a voice 
struck up the following negro ditty close to us : 

” Fader was a Corramantee, 

Moder was a Mingo, 

Black picaniny buccra wan tee. 

So dem sell a me Peter, by jingo. 

Jiggery, jiggery, jiggery.” 

“ Well sung, Massa Bungo,” exclaimed Mr Splinter; 
“ where do you hail from, my hearty ? ” 

“ Hillo ! Bungo, indeed ! free and easy dat, anyhow. Who 
you yousef , eh ? ” 

“ Why, Peter,” continued the lieutenant, “ don’t you know 
me? ” 

“ Cannot say dat I do,” rejoined the negro, very gravely, 
without lifting his head, as he sat mending his jacket in one 
of the embrazures near the water gate of the arsenal — “ Have 
not de honour of your acquaintance, sir.” 

He then resumed his scream, for song it could not be 
called : — 

** Mammy Sally’s daughter 

Lose him shoe in an old canoe 
Dat lay half full of water. 

And den she knew not what to do. 

Jiggery, jig ” 

“ Confound your jiggery, jiggery, sir! But I know you 
well enough, my man; and you can scarcely have forgotten 
Lieutenant Splinter of the Torch, one would think? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


103 


However, it was clear that the poor fellow really had not 
known us; for the name so startled him, that, in his hurry 
to unlace his legs from under him, as he sat tailor-fashion, 
he fairly capsized out of his perch, and toppled down on his 
nose — a feature, fortunately, so flattened by the hand of 
nature, that I question if it could have been rendered more 
obtuse had he fallen out of the maintop on a timber-head, or 
a marine officers. 

“ Eh ! — no — yes, him sure enough ; and who is de pica- 
ninny hofficer — Oh ! I see, Massa Tom Cringle ? Garamighty, 
gentlemen, where have you drop from? — Where is de old 
Torch! Many a time hab I, Peter Mangrove, pilot to Him 
Britannic Majesty squadron, taken de old brig in and 
through amongst de keys at Port Royal ! ” 

“ Ay, and how often did you scour her copper against the 
coral reefs, Peter ? ” 

His Majesty’s pilot gave a knowing look, and laid hi3 
hand on his breast — “ No more of dat if you love me, massa.” 

u Well, well, it don’t signify now, my boy; she will never 
give you that trouble again — foundered — all hands lost, 
Peter, but the two you see before you.” 

“ Werry sorry, Massa Plinter, werry sorry — What ! de black 
cook’s-mate and all ? — But misfortune can’t be help. Stop till 
I put up my needle, and I will take a turn wid you.” Here 
he drew himself up with a great deal of absurd gravity. 
“ Proper dat British hofficer in distress should assist one an- 
oder — We shall consult togeder. — How can I serve you? ” 

“ Why, Peter, ^ if you could help us to a passage to Port 
Royal, it would be serving us most essentially. When we 
used to be lying there, a week seldom passed without one of 
the squadron arriving from this; but here have we been for 
more than a month, without a single pennant belonging to 
the station having looked in: our money is running short, 
and if we are to hold on in Carthagena for another six weeks, 
we shall not have a shot left in the locker — not a copper to 
tinkle on a tombstone.” 

The negro looked steadfastly at us, then carefully around. 
There was no one near. 

“ You see, Massa Plinter, I am desirable to serve you, for 
one little reason of my own; but, beside dat, it is good for 
me at present to make some friend wid de hofficer of de 
squadron, being as how dat I am absent widout leave.” 

“ Oh, I perceive — a large R against your name in the 
master attendant’s books, eh ? ” 

“You have hit it, sir, werry close; besides, I long mosh 


104 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


to return to my poor wife, Nancy Cator, dat I leave, waga- 
bone dat I is, just about to be confine.” 

I could not resist putting in my oar. 

“ I saw Nancy just before we sailed, Peter, — fine child that; 
not quite so black as you, though.” 

“ Oh, massa,” said Snowball, grinning and shewing his 
white teeth, “ you know I am soch a terrible black fellow — 
But you are a leetle out at present, massa — I meant, about 
to be confine in de workhouse, for stealing de admiral’s Mus- 
covy ducks;” and he laughed loud and long. — “However, if 
you will promise dat you will stand my friends, I will put you 
in de way of getting a shove across to de east end of Jamaica; 
and I will go wid you, too, for company.” 

“Thank you,” rejoined Mr Splinter; “but how do you 
mean to manage this? There is no Kingston trader here at 
present, and you don’t mean to make a start of it in ail open 
boat, do you ? ” 

“No, sir, I don’t; but in de first place — as you are a gen- 
tleman, will you try and get me off when we get to Jamaica? 
Secondly, will you promise dat you will not seek to know 
more of de vessel you may go in, nor of her crew, than dey 
are willing to tell you, provided you are landed safe ? ” 

“ Why, Peter, I scarcely think you would deceive us, for 
you know I saved your bacon in that awkward affair, when 
through drunkenness you plumped the Torch ashore, so ” 

“ Forget dat, sir, — forget dat! — Never shall poor black pilot 
forget how you saved him from being seized up, when de 
gratings, boatswain’s mates, and all, were ready at de gang- 
way — never shall poor black rascal forget dat.” 

“ Indeed, I do not think you would wittingly betray us 
into trouble, Peter; and as I guess you mean one of the 
forced traders, we will venture in her, rather than kick about 
here any longer, and pay a moderate sum for our passage.” 

“ Den wait here five minute” — and so saying, he slipt down 
through the embrazure into a canoe that lay beneath, and in 
a trice we saw him jump on board of a long low nonde- 
script kind of craft, that lay moored within pistol-shot of the 
walls. 

She was a large shallow vessel, coppered to the bends, of 
great breadth of beam, with bright sides, like an American, 
so painted as to give her a clumsy mercantile sheer exter- 
nally, but there were many things that belied this to a nau- 
tical eye; her copper, for instance, was bright as burnished 
gold on her very sharp bows and beautiful run; and we could 
see, from the bastion where we stood, that her decks were 
flush and level. She had no cannon mounted that were visi- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


105 

ble, but we distinguished grooves on her well-scrubbed decks, 
as from the recent traversing of carronade slides, while the 
bolts and rings in her high and solid bulwarks shone clear* 
and bright in the ardent noontide. There was a tarpauling 
stretched over a quantity of rubbish, old sails, old junk, and 
hencoops rather ostentatiously piled up forward, which we 
conjectured might conceal a long gun. 

She was a very taught-rigged hermaphrodite, or brig for- 
ward and schooner aft. Her foremast and bowsprit were 
immensely strong and heavy, and her mainmast was so long 
and tapering, that the wonder was, how the few shrouds and 
stays about it could support it; it was the handsomest stick 
we had ever seen. Her upper spars were on the same scale, 
tapering away through topmast, topgallant-mast, royal and 
skysail-masts, until they fined away into slender wands. The 
sails, that were loose to dry, were old, and patched, and 
evidently displayed to cloak the character of the vessel by 
an ostentatious show of their unserviceable condition, but her 
rigging was beautifully fitted, every rope lying in the chafe 
of another being carefully served with hide. There were 
several large bushy-whiskered fellows lounging about the 
deck, with their hair gathered into dirty net bags, like the 
fishermen of Barcelona ; many had red silk sashes round their 
waists, through which were stuck their long knives, in shark- 
skin sheaths. Their numbers were not so great as to excite 
suspicion; but a certain daring, reckless manner, would at 
once have distinguished them, independently of anything else, 
from the quiet, hard- worked, red-shirted, merchant seaman. 

“ That chap is not much to be trusted,” said the lieutenant; 
“his bunting would make a few jackets for Joseph, I take 
it.” But we had little time to be critical, before our friend 
Peter came paddling back with another blackamoor in the 
stern, of as ungainly an exterior as could well be imagined. 
He was a very large man, whose weight every now and then, 
as they breasted the short sea, cocked up the snout of the 
canoe with Peter Mangrove in it, as if he had been a cork, 
leaving him to flourish his paddle in the air, like the weather- 
wheel of a steam-boat in a sea-way. The new comer was 
strong and broad-shouldered, with long muscular arms, and 
a chest like Hercules; but his legs and thighs were, for his 
bulk, remarkably puny and misshapen. A thick fell of black 
wool, in close tufts, as if his face had been stuck full of 
cloves, covered his chin and upper lip; and his hair, if hair 
it could be called, was twisted into a hundred short plaits, 
that bristled out, and gave his head, when he took his hat off, 
the appearance of a porcupine. There was a large sabre-cut 


io6 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


across his nose, and down his cheek, and he wore two immense 
gold earrings. His dress consisted of short cotton drawers, 
that did not reach within two inches of his knee, leaving 
his thin cucumber shanks (on which the small bullet-like calf 
appeared to have been stuck before, through mistake, in place 
of abaft) naked to the shoe : a check-shirt, and an enormously 
large Panama hat, made of a sort of cane, split small, and 
worn shovel-fashion. Notwithstanding, he made his bow by 
no means ungracefully, and offered his services in choice 
Spanish, but spoke English as soon as he heard who we were. 

u Pray, sir, are you the master of that vessel ? ” said the 
lieutenant. 

“ No, sir, I am the mate, and I learn you are desirous of a 
passage to Jamaica.” This was spoken with a broad Scotch 
accent. # > 

“ Yes, we are,” said I, in very great astonishment, “ but we 
will not sail with the devil; and who ever saw a negro Scotch- 
man before, the spirit of Nicol Jarvie conjured into a blacka- 
moor’s skin ! ” 

The fellow laughed. “ I am black, as you see; so were my 
father and mother before me.” And he looked at me, as much 
as to say, I have read the book you quote from. “ But I was 
born in the good town of Port-Glasgow, notwithstanding, and 
many a voyage I have made as cabin-boy and cook, in the 
good ship the Peggy Bogle, with worthy old Jack Hunter; 
but that matters not. I was told you wanted to go to Ja- 
maica; I dare say our captain will take you for a moderate 
passage-money. But here he comes to speak for himself. — 
Captain Vanderbosh, here are two shipwrecked British offi- 
cers, who wish to be put on shore on the east end of Jamaica; 
will you take them, and what will you charge for their 
passage ? ” 

The man he spoke to was nearly as tall as himself; he 
was a sun-burnt, angular, raw-boned, iron-visaged veteran, 
with a nose in shape and colour like the bowl of his own pipe, 
but not at all, according to the received idea, like a Dutch- 
man. His dress was quizzical enough, — white trowsers, a 
long-flapped embroidered waistcoat, that might have belonged 
to a Spanish grandee, with an old-fashioned French-cut coat, 
shewing the frayed marks where the lace had been stripped 
off, voluminous in the skirts, but very tight in the sleeves, 
which were so short as to leave his large bony paws, and six 
inches of his arm above the wrist, exposed; altogether, it 
fitted him like a purser’s shirt on a handspike. 

“ Yy, for von hondred thaler, I will land dem safe in Man- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 107 

cheoneal Bay; but how shall ve manage, Villiamson? De 
cabin vas point yesterday.” 

The Scotch negro nodded. “Never mind; I dare say the 
smell of the paint won’t signify to the gentlemen.” 

The bargain was ratified, we agreed to pay the stipulated 
sum, and that same evening, having dropped down with the 
last of the sea-breeze, we set sail from Bocca Chica, and 
began working up under the lee of the headland of Punto 
Canoa. When oft’ the San Domingo Gate, we burned a blue 
light, which -was immediately answered by another in shore 
of us. In the glare, we could perceive two boats, full of men. 
Any one who has ever played at snapdragon, can imagine the 
unearthly appearance of objects, when seen by this species of 
firework. In the present instance, it was held aloft on a boat- 
hook, and cast a strong spectral light on the band of lawless 
ruffians, who were so crowded together, that they entirely 
filled the boats, no part of which could be seen. It seemed 
as if two clusters of fiends, suddenly vomited forth from hell, 
were floating on the surface of the midnight sea, in the midst 
of brimstone flames. In a few moments, our crew was 
strengthened by about forty as ugly Christians as I ever set 
eyes on. They were of all ages, countries, complexions, and 
tongues, and looked as if they had been kidnapped by a press- 
gang, as they had knocked oft from the Tower of Babel. 
From the moment they came on board. Captain Vanderbosh 
was shorn of all his glory, and sank into the petty officer, 
while to our amazement, the Scottish negro took the com- 
mand, evincing great coolness, energy, and skill. He ordered 
the schooner to be wore, as soon as we had shipped the men, 
and laid her head off the land, then set all hands to shift the 
old suit of sails, and to bend new ones. 

“ Why did you not shift your canvass before we started ? ” 
said I to the Dutch captain, or mate, or whatever he might be. 

“ Yy vont you be content to take a quiet passage and hax 
no question ? ” was the uncivil rejoinder, which I felt inclined 
to resent, until I remembered that we were in the hands of 
the Philistines, where a quarrel would have been worse than 
useless. I was gulping down the insult as well as I could, 
when the black captain came aft, and, with the air of an 
equal, invited us into the cabin to take a glass of grog. 
We had scarcely sat down before we heard a noise like 
the swaying up of guns, or some other heavy articles, from 
the hold. 

I caught Mr Splinter’s eye — he nodded, but said nothing. 
In half an hour afterwards, when we went on deck, we saw 
by the light of the moon, twelve eighteen-pound carronades 


io8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


mounted, six of a side, with their accompaniments of ram- 
mers and sponges, water-buckets, boxes of round, grape, and 
canister, and tubs of wadding, while the coamings of the 
hatchways were thickly studded with round shot. The tar- 
pauling and lumber forward had disappeared, and there lay 
long Tom ready levelled, grinning on his pivot. 

The ropes were all coiled away, and laid down in regular 
man-of-war fashion; while an ugly gruff beast of a Spanish 
mulatto, apparently the officer of the watch, walked the 
weather-side of the quarterdeck, in the true pendulum style. 
Look-outs were placed aft, and at the gangways and bows, 
who every now and then passed the word to keep a bright 
look-out, while the rest of the watch were stretched silent, but 
evidently broad awake, under the lee of the boat. We noticed 
that each man had his cutlass buckled round his waist — that 
the boarding-pikes had been cut loose from the main boom, 
round which they had been stopped, and that about thirty 
muskets were ranged along a fixed rack, that ran athwart 
ships, near the main hatchway. 

By the time we had reconnoitred thus far, the night became 
overcast, and a thick bank of clouds began to rise to wind- 
ward; some heavy drops of rain fell, and the thunder grum- 
bled at a distance. The black veil crept gradually on, until 
it shrouded the whole firmament, and left us in as dark a 
night as ever poor devils were out in. By and by, a narrow 
streak of bright moonlight appeared under the lower edge 
of the bank, defining the dark outlines of the tumbling 
multitudinous billows on the horizon, as distinctly as if they 
had been pasteboard waves in a theatre. 

“ Is that a sail to windward in the clear, think you ? ” said 
Mr Splinter to me in a whisper. At this moment it light- 
ened vividly. “ I am sure it is,” continued he — “ I could see 
her white canvass glance just now.” 

I looked steadily, and, at last, caught the small dark 
speck against the bright background, rising and falling on 
the swell of the sea like a feather. 

As we stood on, she was seen more distinctly, but, to all 
appearance, nobody was aware of her proximity. We were 
mistaken in this, however, for the captain suddenly jumped 
on a gun, and gave his orders with a fiery energy that 
startled us. 

“Leroux!” A small French boy was at his side in a 
moment. “ Forward, and call all hands to shorten sail; 
but, doucement , you land crab ! — Man the fore clew-garnets. 
—Hands by the topgallant clew-lines — jib down-haul — rise 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 109 

tacks and sheets — peak and throat haulyards — let go — clew 
up — settle away the main-gatf there ! ” 

In almost as short a space as I have taken to write it, 
every inch of canvass was close furled — every light, except 
the one in the binnacle, and that was cautiously masked, 
carefully extinguished — a hundred and twenty men at quar- 
ters, and the ship under bare poles. The head yards were 
then squared, and we bore up before the wind. The strata- 
gem proved successful ; the strange sail could be seen 
through the night glasses, cracking on close to the wind, 
evidently under the impression that we had tacked. 

“ Dere she goes chasing de Gobel,” said the Dutch- 
man. 

She now burned a blue light, by which we saw she was a 
heavy cutter — without doubt our old fellow-cruiser the 
Spark. The Dutchman had come to the same conclusion. 

“ My eye. Captain, no use to dodge from her ; it is only 
dat footy little King’s cutter on de Jamaica station.” 

“It is her, true enough,” answered Williamson; “and 
she is from Santa Martha with a freight of specie, I know. 
I will try a brush with her, by ” 

Splinter struck in before he could finish his irreverent 
exclamation. “ If your conjecture be true, I know the craft 
— a heavy vessel of her class, and you may depend on hard 
knocks, and small profit if you do take her; while, if she 
takes you ” 

“ I’ll be hanged if she does” — and he grinned at the con- 
ceit — then setting his teeth hard, “ or rather, I will blow 
the schooner up with my own hand before I strike; better 
that than have one’s bones bleached in chains on a key at 
Port Royal. — But you see you cannot control us, gentle- 
men; so get down into the cable tier, and take Peter Man- 
grove with you. I would not willingly see those come to 
harm who have trusted me.” 

However, there was no shot flying as yet, we therefore 
staid on deck. All sail was once more made; the carronades 
were cast loose on both sides, and double-shotted, the long 
gun slewed round ; the tack of the fore-and-aft foresail 
hauled up, and we kept by the wind, and stood after the 
cutter, whose white canvass we could still see through the 
gloom like a snow-wreath. 

As soon as she saw us, she tacked and stood towards us, 
and came bowling along gallantly, with the water roaring 
and flashing at her bows. As the vessels neared each other 
they both shortened sail, and finding that we could not 
weather her, we steered close under her lee. 


no 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


As we crossed on opposite tacks, her commander hailed, 
“ IIo, the brigantine, ahoy ! ” 

“ Hillo ! ” sung out Blackie, as he backed his maintop-sail. 

“ What schooner is that? ” 

“ The Spanish schooner Caridad.” 

“ Whence, and whither bound ? ” 

“ Carthagena to Porto Rico.” 

“ Heave-to, and send your boat on board.” 

“ We have none that will swim, sir.” 

“ Very well — bring- to, and I will send mine.” 

“ Call away the boarders,” said our captain, in a low, stern 
tone ; “ let them crouch out of sight behind the boat.” 

The cutter wore, and hove-to under our lee quarter, with- 
in pistol-shot; we heard the rattle of the ropes running 
through the davit blocks, and the splash of the jolly-boat 
touching the water, then the measured stroke of the oars 
as they glanced like silver in the sparkling sea, and a voice 
calling out, “ Give way, my lads.” 

The character of the vessel we were on board of was now 
evident; and the bitter reflection that we were chained to 
the stake on board of a pirate, on the eve of a. fierce contest 
with one of our own cruisers, was aggravated by the con- 
sideration, that the cutter had fallen into a snare by which 
a whole boat’s crew would be sacrificed before a shot was 
fired. 

I watched my opportunity as she pulled up alongside, and 
called out, leaning well over the nettings, “ Get back to your 
ship ! — treachery ! get back to your ship ! ” 

The little French serpent was at my side with the speed 
of thought, his long clear knife glancing in one hand, while 
the fingers of the other were laid on his lips. He could not 
have said more plainly, “ Hold your tongue, or I’ll cut 
your throat;” but Sneezer now startled him by rushing be- 
tween us, and giving a short, angry growl. 

The officer in the boat had heard me imperfectly; he rose 
up — “ I won’t go back, my good man, until I see what you 
are made of;” and as he spoke he sprung on board, but the 
instant he got over the bulwarks, he was caught by two 
strong hands, gagged, and thrown bodily down the main 
hatchway. 

“ Heave,” cried a voice, “ and with a will ! ” and four cold 
32-pound shot were hove at once into the boat alongside, 
which crashing through her bottom, swamped her in a mo- 
ment, precipitating the miserable crew into the boiling sea. 
Their shrieks still ring in my ears as they clung to the oars 
and some loose planks of the boat. 


: 



"ANSWER HIM INSTANTLY, AND HAIL AGAIN FOR ANOTHER BOAT,” SAID 
THE SABLE FIEND, AND COCKED HIS PISTOL. 





TOM CRINGLE’S LOG ill 

“ Bring up the officer, and take out the gag,” said Will- 
iamson. 

Poor Walcolm, who had been an old messmate of mine, 
was now dragged to the gangway half -naked, his face bleed- 
ing, and heavily ironed, when the blackamoor, clapping a 
pistol to his head, bid him, as he feared instant death, hail 
“ that the boat had swamped under the counter, and to send 
another.” The poor fellow, who appeared stunned and con- 
fused, did so, but without seeming to know what he said. 

“ Good God,” said Mr Splinter, “ don’t you mean to pick 
up the boat’s crew ? ” 

The blood curdled to my heart, as the black savage an- 
swered in a voice of thunder, “ Let them drown and be 
d d ! Fill, and stand on ! ” 

But the clouds by this time broke away, and the mild 
moon shone clear and bright once more, upon this scene of 
most atrocious villany. By her light the cutter’s people 
could see that there was no one struggling in the water now, 
and that the people must either have been saved, or were 
past all earthly aid; but the infamous deception was not 
entirely at an end. 

The captain of the cutter, seeing we were making sail, 
did the same, and after having shot ahead of us, hailed once 
more. 

“ Mr Walcolm, why don’t you run to leeward, and heave- 
to, sir ? ” 

“ Answer him instantly, and hail again for another boat,” 
said the sable fiend, and cocked his pistol. 

The click went to my heart. The young midshipman 
turned his pale mild countenance, laced with his blood, 
upwards towards the moon and stars, as one who had looked 
his last look on earth; the large tears were flowing down his 
cheeks, and mingling with the crimson streaks, and a flood 
of silver light fell on the fine features of the poor boy, 
as he said firmly, “Never.” The miscreant fired, and he 
fell dead. 

“ Up with the helm, and wear across her stern.” The 
order was obeyed. “Fire!” The whole broadside was 
poured in, and we could hear the shot rattle and tear along 
the cutter’s deck, a.nd the shrieks and groans of the wounded, 
while the white splinters glanced away in all directions. 

We now ranged alongside, and close action commenced, 
and never do I expect to see such an infernal scene again. 
Up to this moment there had been neither confusion nor 
noise on board the pirate — all had been coolness and order; 
but when the yards locked, the crew broke loose from all 


I 12 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


control— they ceased to be men — they were demons, for 
they threw their own dead and wounded, as they were 
mown down like grass by the cutter’s grape, indiscriminately 
down the hatchways to get clear of them. They had stript 
themselves almost naked; and although they fought with 
the most desperate courage, yelling and cursing, each in his 
own tongue, most hideously, yet their very numbers, pent 
up in a small vessel, were against them. At length, amidst 
the fire, and smoke, and hellish uproar, we could see that 
the deck had become a very shambles; and unless they soon 
carried the cutter by boarding, it was clear that the coolness 
and discipline of my own glorious service must prevail, even 
against such fearful odds, the superior size of the vessel, 
greater number of guns, and heavier metal. The pirates 
seemed aware of this themselves, for they now made a 
desperate attempt forward to carry their antagonist by 
boarding, led on by the black captain. Just at this moment, 
the cutter’s main-boom fell across the schooner’s deck, close 
to where we "were sheltering ourselves from the shot the best 
way we could; and while the rush forward was being made, 
by a sudden impulse Splinter and I, followed by Peter and 
the dog, (who with wonderful sagacity, seeing the useless- 
ness of resistance, had cowered quietly by my side during 
the whole row,) scrambled along it as the cutter’s people 
were repelling the attack on her bow, and all four of us in 
our haste jumped down on the poor Irishman at the wheel. 

“ Murder, fire, rape, and robbery ! it is capsized, stove in, 
sunk, burned, and destroyed I am! Captain, captain, we 
are carried aft here — Och, hubbaboo for Patrick Donnally !” 

There was no time to be lost; if any of the crew came 
aft, we were dead men, so we tumbled down through the 
cabin skylight, men and beast, the hatch having been knocked 
off by a shot, and stowed ourselves away in the side berths. 
The noise on deck soon ceased — the cannon were again plied 
— gradually the fire slackened, and we could hear that the 
pirate had scraped clear and escaped. Some time after this, 
the lieutenant commanding the cutter came down. Poor 
Mr Douglas! both Mr Splinter and I knew him well. He 
sat down and covered his face with his hands, while the 
blood oozed down between his fingers. He had received a 
cutlass wound on the head in the attack. His right arm was 
bound up with his neckcloth, and he was very pale. 

“ Steward, bring me a light. — Ask the doctor how many 
are killed and wounded ; and, do you hear, tell him to come 
to me when he is done forward, but not a moment sooner. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 1 13 

To have been so mauled and duped by a bucanier; and my 
poor boat’s crew ■” 

Splinter groaned. lie started — but at this moment the 
man returned again. 

“ Thirteen killed, your honour, and fifteen wounded ; 
scarcely one of us untouched.” The poor fellow’s own skull 
was bound round with a bloody cloth. 

“ God help me ! God help me ! but they have died the 
death of men. Who knows what death the poor fellows in 
the boat have died ? ” — Here he was cut short by a tre- 
mendous scuffle on the ladder, down which an old quarter- 
master was trundled neck and crop into the cabin. “ How 
now, Jones?” 

“ Please your honour,” said the man, as soon as he had 
gathered himself up, and had time to turn his quid, and 
smooth down his hair; but again the uproar was renewed, 
and Donnally was lugged in, scrambling and struggling 
between two seamen — “ this here Irish chap, your honour, 
has lost his wits, if so be he ever had any, your honour. He 
has gone mad through fright.” 

“Fright be d d!” roared Donnally; “no man ever 

frightened me; but as his honour was skewering them 
bloody thieves forward, I was boarded and carried aft by the 

devil, your honour — pooped by Beelzebub, by and 

he rapped his fist on the table until every thing on it danced 
again. “ There were four of them, yeer honour — a black 
one and two blue ones — and a piebald one, with four legs 
and a bushy tail — each with two horns on his head, for all 
the world like those on Father M’Cleary’s red cow — no, she 
was humbled — it is Father Clannachan’s, I mane — no, not 
his neither, for his was the parish bull; fait, I don’t know 
what 1 mane, except that they had all horns on their heads, 
and vomited fire, and had each of them a tail at his stern, 
twisting and twining like a conger eel, with a blue light at 
the end on’t.” 

“And dat’s a lie, if ever dere was one,” exclaimed Peter 
Mangrove, jumping from the berth. “ Look at me, you 
Irish tief, and tell me if I have a blue light or a conger eel 
at my stern ! ” 

This was too much for poor Donnally. He yelled out, 
“ You’ll believe your own eyes now, yeer honour, when you 
see one o’ dem bodily before you! Let me go — let me 
go ? ” and, rushing up the ladder, he would, in all probability, 
have ended his earthly career in the salt sea, had his bullet 
head not encountered the broadest part of the purser, who 
was in the act of descending, with such violence, that he 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


114 

shot him out of the companion several feet above the deck, 
as if he had been discharged from a culverin; but the recoil 
sent poor Donnally, stunned and senseless, to the bottom of 
the ladder. There was no standing all this; we laughed 
outright, and made ourselves known to Mr Douglas, who 
received us cordially, and in a week we were landed at Port 
Royal. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE CRUISE OF THE SPARK 

“Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed.” 

The Corsair. 

The only other midshipman on board the cutter beside 
young Walcolm, whose miserable death we had witnessed, 
was a slight delicate little fellow, about fourteen years old, 
of the name of Duncan ; he was the smallest boy of his age 
I ever saw, and had been badly hurt in repelling the attack 
of the pirate. His wound was a lacerated puncture in the 
left shoulder from a boarding-pike, but it appeared to be 
healing kindly, and for some days we thought he was doing 
well. However, about five o’clock in the afternoon on which 
■we made Jamaica, the surgeon accosted Mr Douglas as we 
were walking the deck together. 

I fear little Duncan is going to slip through my fingers 
after all, sir.” 

“ No ! — I thought he had been better.” 

“ So he was till about noon, when a twitching of the 
muscles came on, which I fear betokens lock jaw; he wavers, 
too, now and then, a bad sign of itself where there is a fret- 
ting wound.” 

We went below, where, notwithstanding the wind-sail 
that was let down close to where his hammock was slung, 
the heat of the small vessel was suffocating. The large coarse 
tallow candle in the purser’s lantern, that hung beside his 
shoulder, around which the loathsome cock-roaches fluttered 
like moths in a summer evening, filled the between decks 
with a rancid oily smell, and with smoke as from a torch, 
while it ran down and melted like fat before a fire. It cast 
a dull sickly gleam on the pale face of the brown-haired, 
girlish-looking lad, as he lay in his narrow hammock. When 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


115 

we entered, an old quarter-master was rubbing his legs, 
which were jerking about like the limbs of a galvanized frog, 
while two of the boys held his arms, also violently convulsed. 
The poor little fellow was crying and sobbing most piteously, 
but made a strong effort to compose himself and “ be a man ” 
when he saw us. 

“ This is so good of you, Mr Cringle ! you will take 
charge of my letter to my sister, I know you will? — I say, 
Anson,” to the quarter-master, “ do lift me up a little till I 
try and finish it. — It will be a sore heart to poor Sarah; she 
has no mother now, nor father, and aunt is not over kind,” 
— -and again he wept bitterly. “ Confound this jumping 
hand, it won’t keep steady, all I can do. — I say, Doctor, I 
shan’t die this time, shall I ? ” 

“ hope not, my fine little fellow.” 

“ I don’t think I shall ; I shall live to be a man yet, in 
spite of that bloody bucanier’s pike, I know I shall.” God 
help me, the death rattle was already in his throat, and the 
flame was flickering in the socket; even as he spoke, the 
muscles of his neck stiffened to such a degree that I thought 
he was choked, but the violence of the convulsion quickly 
subsided. “ I am done for. Doctor ! ” he could no longer open 
his mouth, but spoke through his clenched teeth — “ I feel 
it now! — God Almighty receive my soul, and protect my 
poor sister ! ” The arch-enemy was indeed advancing to the 
final struggle, for he now gave a sudden and sharp cry, and 
stretched out his legs and arms, which instantly became as 
rigid as marble, and in his agony he turned his face to the 
side I stood on, but he was no longer sensible. “ Sister,” he 
said with difficulty — “ don’t let them throw me overboard ; 
there are sharks here.” 

“ Land on the lee bow,” — sung out the man at the mast- 
head. 

The common life sound would not have moved any of us 
in the routine of duty, but bursting in, under such circum- 
stances, it made us all start, as if it had been something 
unusual; the dying midshipman heard it, and said calmly — 
“Land! — I will never see it. — But how blue all your lips 
look. — It is cold, piercing cold, and dark, dark.” Something 
seemed to rise in his throat, his features sharpened still 
more, and he tried to gasp, but his clenched teeth prevented 
him — he was gone. 

I went on deck with a heavy heart, and, on looking in the 
direction indicated, I beheld the towering Blue Mountain 
peak rising high above the horizon, even at the distance of 
fifty miles, with its outline clear and distinct against the 


1 1 6 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


splendid western sky, now gloriously illumined by the light 
of the set sun. We stood on under easy sail for the night, 
and next morning when the day broke, we were off the east 
end of the magnificent Island of Jamaica. The stupendous 
peak now appeared to rise close aboard of us, with a large 
solitary star sparkling on his forehead, and reared his forest- 
crowned summit high into he cold blue sky, impending over 
us in frowning magnificence, while the long dark range of 
the Blue Mountains, with {heir outlines hard and clear in the 
gray light, sloped away on each side of him as if they had 
been the Giant’s shoulders. Great masses of white mist 
hung on their sides about half-way down, but all the valleys 
and coasts as yet slept in the darkness. We could see that 
the land-wind was blowing strong inshore, from the darker 
colour of the water, and the speed with which the coasters, 
only distinguishable by their white sails, slid along; while 
astern of us, out at sea, yet within a cable’s length, for we 
had scarcely shot beyond its influence, the prevailing trade- 
wind blew a smart breeze, coming up strong to a defined line, 
beyond which and between it and the influence of the land- 
wind, there was a belt of dull lead-coloured sea, about half 
a mile broad, with a long heavy ground-swell rolling, but 
smooth as glass, and without even a ripple on the surface, in 
the midst of which we presently lay dead becalmed. 

The heavy dew was shaken in large drops out of the wet 
flapping sails, against which the reef points pattered like hail 
as the vessel rolled. The decks were wet and slippery, and 
our jackets saturated with moisture; but we enjoyed the 
luxury of cold to a degree that made the sea water when 
dashed about the decks, as they were being holystoned, ap- 
pear absolutely warm. Presently all nature awoke in its 
freshness so suddenly, that it looked like a change of scene 
in a theatre. The sun, as yet set to us, rose to the huge peak, 
and glanced like lightning on his summit, making it gleam 
like a ruby; presently the clouds on his shaggy ribs rolled 
upwards, enveloping his head and shoulders, and were re- 
placed by the thin blue mists which ascended from the val- 
leys, forming a fleecy canopy, beneath which appeared hill 
and dale, woods and cultivated lands, where all had been un- 
distinguishable a minute before, and gushing streams burst 
from the mountain sides like gouts of froth, marking their 
course in the level grounds by the vapours they sent up. 
Then breeze-mill towers burst into light, and cattle-mills, 
with their cone-shaped roofs, and overseers’ houses, and 
water-mills, with the white spray falling from the wheels, 
and sugar-works, with long pennants of white smoke stream- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ii 7 

ing from the boiling-house chimneys seaward in the morn- 
ing wind. Immediately after, gangs of negroes were seen at 
work; loaded waggons, with enormous teams of fourteen to 
twenty oxen dragging them, rolled along the roads; long 
strings of mules loaded with canes w T ere threading the fields; 
drogging vessels were seen to shove out from every cove; the 
morning song of the black fisherman was heard, while their 
tiny canoes, like black specks, started up suddenly on all 
sides of us, as if they had floated from the bottom of the sea ; 
and the smiling scene burst at once, and as if by magic, on 
us, in all its coolness and beauty, under the cheering influ- 
ence of the rapidly rising sun. We fired a gun, and made the 
signal for a pilot; upon which a canoe, with three negroes 
in it, shoved off from a small schooner lying to about a mile 
to leeward. They were soon alongside, when one of the three 
jumped on board. This was the pilot, a slave, as I knew; 
and I remember the time, when in my innocence, I would 
have expected to see something very squalid and miserable, 
but there was nothing of the kind; for I never in my life 
saw a more spruce salt-water dandy, in a small way. He was 
well dressed, according to a seaman’s notion — clean white 
trowsers, check shirt, with white lapels, neatly fastened at 
the throat with a black ribbon, smart straw hat; and alto- 
gether he carried an appearance of comfort — I was going to 
write independence — about him, that I was by no means 
prepared for. He moved about with a swaggering roll, 
grinning and laughing with the seamen. 

“ I say, blackie,” said Mr Douglas. 

“John Lodge, massa, if you please, massa; blackie is 
not politef ul, sir ; ” whereupon he shewed his white teeth 
again. 

“ Well, well, John Lodge, you are running us in too close, 
surely ; ” and the remark seemed seasonable enough to a 
stranger, for the rocks on the bold shore were now within 
half pistol-shot. 

“ Mind your eye,” shouted old Ans"On. “ You will have 
us ashore, you black rascal ! ” 

“You, sir, what water have you here?” sung out Mr 
Splinter. 

“ Salt water, massa,” rapped out Lodge, fairly dumb- 
founded by such a volley of questions — “ You hab six f adorn 
good here, massa ; ” but suspecting he had gone too far — “ I 
take de Tonnant, big ship as him is, close to dat reef, sir, you 
might have jump ashore, so you need not frighten for your 
leetle dish of a hooker ; beside, massa, my character is at take, 
you know” — then another grin and bow. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


1 18 

There was no use in being angry with the poor fellow, so 
he was allowed to have his own way until we anchored in 
the evening at Port Royal. 

The morning after we arrived, I went ashore with a boat’s 
crew to perform the magnanimous operation of cutting 
brooms; we pulled for Green Bay, under the guns of the 
Twelve Apostles — a heavy battery of twelve cannon, 'where 
there is a tombstone with an inscription, setting forth that 
the party over whom it was erected, had been actually swal- 
lowed up in the great earthquake that destroyed the opposite 
town, but subsequently disgorged again; being, perchance, 
an unseemly morsel. 

We approached the beach — “ Oars ” — the men laid them 
in. 

“ What sort of nuts be them, Peter Coamings ? ” said the 
coxswain to a new hand who had been lately impressed, and 
was now standing at the bow ready to fend off. 

Peter broke off one of the branches from the bush nearest 
him. 

“ Smite my timbers, do the trees here bear shell-fish ? ” 

The tide in the Gulf of Mexico does not ebb and flow 
above two feet, except at the springs, and the ends of the 
drooping branches of the mangrove-trees, that here cover the 
shore, are clustered, within the wash of the water, with a 
small well-flavoured oyster. The first thing the seamen did 
when they got ashore, was to fasten an oakum tail to the 
rump of one of the most lubberly of the cutter’s crew; they 
then gave him ten yards’ law, when they started in chase, 
shouting amongst the bushes, and switching each other like 
the veriest schoolboys. I had walked some distance along 
the beach, pelting the amphibious little creatures, half crab, 
half lobster, called soldiers, which kept shouldering their 
large claws, and running out and in their little burrows, as 
the small ripple twinkled on the sand in the rising sun, when 
two men-of- war’s boats, each with three officers in the stern, 
suddenly pulled round a little promontory that intercepted 
my view ahead. Being somewhat out of the line of my 
duty, so far from my boat, I squatted amongst the brush- 
wood, thinking they would pass by; but, as the devil would 
have it, they pulled directly for the place where I was en- 
sconced, beached their boats, and jumped on shore. “ Here’s 
a mess,” thought I. 

1 soon made out that one of the officers was Captain 
Pinkem of the Flash, and that the parties saluted each other 
with that stern courtesy which augured no good. 

“ So, so, my masters, not enough of fighting on the coast 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


119 

of America, but you must have a little private defacing of 
God’s image amongst yourselves ? ” 

Pinkem spoke first. “Mr. Clinch,” (I now knew he ad- 
dressed the first lieutenant of the flag-ship,) — “Mr. Clinch, 
it is not too late to prevent unpleasant consequences; I ask 
you again, at the eleventh hour, will you make an apology ? ” 
He seemed hurried and fidgety in his manner; which 
rather surprised me, as I knew he was a seasoned hand in 
these matters, and it contrasted unfavourably with the calm 
bearing of his antagonist, who by this time had thrown his 
hat on the ground, and stood with one foot on the handker- 
chief that marked his position, the distance, twelve paces, 
having already been measured. By the by, his position was 
deucedly near in a line with the gray stone behind which I 
lay perdu; nevertheless, the risk I ran did not prevent me 
noticing that he was very pale, and had much the air of a 
brave man come to die in a bad cause. He looked upwards 
for a second or two, and then answered, slowly and distinctly, 
“ Captain Pinkem, I now repeat what I said before ; this 
rencontre is none of my seeking. You accuse me of having 
spoken slightingly of you seven years ago, when I was a mere 
boy. You have the evidence of a gallant officer that I did 
so; therefore I may not gainsay it; but of uttering the 
words imputed to me, I declare, upon my honour, I have no 
recollection.” He paused. 

“ That won’t do, my fine fellow,” said Pinkem. 

“You are unreasonable,” rejoined Clinch, in the same 
measured tone, “ to expect farther amende for uttering words 
which I have no conviction of having spoken; yet to any 
other officer in the service I would not hesitate to make a 
more direct apology, but you know your credit as a pistol- 
shot renders this impossible. 

“ Sorry for it, Mr Clinch, sorry for it.” 

Here the pistols were handed to the principals by their 
respective seconds. In their attitudes, the proficient and the 
novice were strikingly contrasted; (by this time I had crept 
round so as to have a view of both parties, or rather, if the 
truth must be told, to be out of the line of fire.) Pinkem 
stood with his side accurately turned towards his antagonist, 
so as to present the smallest possible surface; his head was, 
as it struck me, painfully slewed round, with his eye looking 
steadily at Clinch, over his right shoulder, whilst his arm 
was brought down close to his thigh, with the cock of the 
pistol turned outwards, so that his weapon must have covered 
his opponent by the simple raising of his arm below the 
elbow. Clinch on the other hand, stood fronting him, with 


120 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the whole breadth of his chest; holding his weapon awk- 
wardly across his body, with both hands. Pinkem appeared 
unwilling to take him at such advantage, for, although 
violent and headstrong, and but too frequently the slave of 
his passions, he had some noble traits in his character. 

“ Turn your feather edge to me, Mr Clinch ; take a fair 
chance, man.” 

The lieutenant bowed, and I thought would have spoken, 
but he was checked by “ the fear of being thought to fear ; ” 
however, he took the advice, and in an instant the word was 
given — “ Are you both ready ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then fire!” 

Clinch fired without deliberation. I saw him, for my 
eyes were fixed on him, expecting to see him fall. He stood 
firm, however, which was more than I did, as at the instant 
a piece of the bullion of an epaulet, at first taken for a pellet 
of baser metal, struck me sharply on the nose, and shook my 
equanimity confoundedly; at length I turned to look at 
Pinkem, and there he stood with his arm raised, and pistol 
levelled, but he had not fired. He stood thus whilst I might 
have counted ten, like a finger-post, then dropping his hand, 
his weapon went off, but without aim, the bullet striking the 
sand near his feet, and down he came headlong to the ground. 
He fell with his face turned towards me, and I never shall 
forget the horrible expression of it. His healthy complexion 
had given place to a deadly blue, the eyes were wide open 
and straining in their sockets, the upper lip was drawn up, 
shewing his teeth in a most frightful grin, the blood gushed 
from his mouth as if impelled by the strokes of a force-pump, 
while his hands griped and dug into the sand. 

Before the sun set, he was a dead man. 

“ A neat morning’s work, gentlemen,” thought I. 

The two surgeons came up, opened his dress, felt his pulse, 
and shook their heads; the boat’s crews grouped around 
them — he was lifted into his gig, the word was given to 
shove off, and — T returned to my broom-cutters. 

When we got on board, the gunner, who had the watch, 
was taking his fisherman’s walk on the starboard side of the 
quarterdeck, and kept looking steadily at the land, as if to 
avoid seeing poor little Duncan’s coffin, that lay on a grating 
near the gangway. The crew, assisted by thirty men from 
the flag-ship, were employed in twenty different ways, re- 
pairing damages, and were bustling about, laughing, joking, 
and singing, with small regard to the melancholy object 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


I 2 1 


before their eyes, when Mr. Douglas put his head up the 
ladder — “Now, Jackson, if you please.” 

The old fellow’s countenance fell as if his heart was wrung 
by the order he had to give. 

“ Aloft there ! lie out, you Perkins, and reeve a whip on 

the starboard yard-arm to lower Mr •” The rest stuck 

in his throat, but, as if ashamed of his soft-heartedness, he 
threw as much gruffness as he could into his voice as he sung , 
out — “ Beat to quarters there ! — knock off, men ! ” 

The roll of the drum stayed the confusion and noise of the 
people at work in an instant, who immediately ranged them- 
selves, in their clean frocks and trowsers, on each side of 
the quarterdeck. At a given signal, the white deal coffin, 
wrapped in its befitting pall, the meteor flag of England, 
swung high above the hammock nettings, between us and 
the bright blue sky, to the long clear note of the boatswain’s 
whistle, which soon ending in a short chirrup, told that it 
now rested on the thwarts of the boat alongside. We pulled 
ashore, and it was a sight perchance to move a woman, to 
see the poor little fellow’s hat and bit of a dirk lying on his 
coffin, whilst the body was carried by four ship boys, the 
eldest scarcely fourteen. I noticed the tears stand in Anson’s 
eyes as the coffin was lowered into the grave, — the boy had 
been wounded close to him, — and when we heard the hollow 
rattle of the earth on the coffin, — an unusual sound to a 
sailor, he shuddered. 

“ Yes, Master Cringle,” he said in a whisper, “ he was as 
kind-hearted, and as brave a lad as ever trode on shoe leather, 
— none of the larkings of the men in the clear moonlight 
nights ever reached the cabin through him, — nor was ho 
the boy to rouse the watch from under the lee of the boats 
in bad weather, to curry with the lieutenant, while he knew 
the look-outs were as bright as beagles — and where was the 
man in our watch that wanted ’baccy while Mr Duncan had 
a shiner left ? ” The poor fellow drew the back of his horny 
hand across his eyes, and grumbled out as he turned away, 
“And here am I, Bill Anson, such a swab as to be ashamed 
of being sorry for him.” 

We were now turned over into the receiving-ship, the old 
Shark, and fortunately there were captains enough in port 
to try us for the loss of the Torch, so we got over our court- 
martial speedily, and the very day I got back my dirk, the 
packet brought m6 out a lieutenant’s commission. Being 
now my own master for a season, I determined to visit some 
relations I had in the island, to whom I had never yet been 
introduced; so I shook hands with old Splinter, packed my; 


122 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


kit; and went to the wharf to charter a wherry to carry me 
up to Kingston. The moment my object was perceived by 
the black boatmen, I was surrounded by a mob of them, 
pulling and hauling each other, and shouting forth the vari- 
ous qualifications of their boats, with such vehemence, that 
I was nearly deafened. 

“ Massa, no see Pam be Civil, sail like a witch, tack like a 
dolphin ? ” 

“ Don’t believe him, massa ; Ballahoo is de boat dat can 
beat him.” 

“ Big lie dat, as I am a gentleman ! ” roared a ragged black 
vagabond. 

“ Come in de Monkey, massa ; no flying fis can beat she.” 

“ Don’t boder de gentleman,” yelled a fourth, — “ massa 
love de Stamp-and-go — no so, massa ? ” as he saw me make 
a step in the direction of his boat. “ Oh yes — so get out of 
de way, you black rascals,” — the fellow was as black as a 
sloe himself — “ make .room for man-of-war buccra; him 
leetle just now, but will be admiral one day.” 

So saying, the fellow who had thus appropriated me, 
without more ado, levelled his head like a battering-ram, 
and began to batter in breach all who stood in his way. He 
first ran a tilt against Pam be Civil, and shot him like a 
rocket into the sea; the Monkey fared no better; the Balla- 
hoo had to swim for it; and having thus opened a way by 
main force, I at length got safely moored in the stern-sheets ; 
but just as we were shoving off, Mr Callaloo, the clergyman 
of Port Royal, a tall yellow personage, begged for a passage, 
and was accordingly taken on board. As it was high water, 
my boatmen chose the five-foot channel, as the boat channel 
near to Gallows Point is called, by which a long stretch 
would be saved, and we were cracking on cheerily, my mind 
full of my recent promotion, when scur, scur, scur, we stuck 
fast on the bank. Our black boatmen, being little encum- 
bered with clothes, jumped overboard in a covey like so 
many wild-ducks, shouting as they dropped into the water. 
“We must all get out, — we must all get out;” whereupon 
Mr Callaloo, a sort of Dominie Sampson in his way, promptly 
leaped overboard up to his waist in the water. The negroes 
were thunderstruck. 

“ Massa Parson Callaloo, you mad surely, you mad ! ” 

“ Children, I am not mad, but obedient, — you said we 
must all get out ” 

“To be sure, massa, and you see we all did get out?” 

“And did you not see that I got out too?” rejoined the 
parson, still in the water, and somewhat nettled. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


123 


11 Oh, lud, massa! we no mean you — we meant poor nigger, 
not white man parson.” 

“ You said all, children, and thereupon I leaped,” pro- 
nouncing the last word in two syllables — “ be more correct 
in your grammar next time.” 

The worthy but eccentric old chap then scrambled on 
board again, amidst the suppressed laughter of the boat- 
men, and kept his seat, wet clothes and all, until we reached 
Kingston. 


CHAPTER VII 

SCENES IN JAMAICA 

** Excellent— why this is the best fooling when all is done.” 

Twelfth Night. 

I confess that I did not promise myself much pleasure 
from my cruise ashore; somehow or other I had made up 
my mind to believe, that in Jamaica, putting aside the mag- 
nificence and natural beauty of the face of the country, 
there was little to interest me. I had pictured to myself the 
slaves — a miserable, squalid, half -fed, ill-clothed, over- 
worked race — and. their masters, and the white inhabitants 
generally, as an unwholesome-looking crew of saffron-faced 
tyrants, who wore straw hats with umbrella brims, wide 
trowsers, and calico jackets, living on pepper pot and land 
crabs, and drinking sangaree and smoking cigars the whole 
day; in a word, that all that Bryan Edwards and others had 
written regarding the civilization of the West Indies was a 
fable. But I was agreeably undeceived; for although I did 
meet with some extraordinary characters, and witnessed not 
a few rum scenes, yet, on the whole, I gratefully bear wit- 
ness to the great hospitality of the inhabitants, both in the 
towns and in the country. In Kingston the society was 
extremely good, as good, I can freely affirm, as I ever met 
with in any provincial town anywhere; and there prevailed 
a warmth of heart, and a kindliness both in the males and 
females of those families to which I had the good fortune 
to be introduced, that I never experienced out of J amaica. 

At the period I am describing, the island was in the hey- 
day of its prosperity, and the harbour of Kingston was full 
of shipping. I had never before seen so superb a mercantile 


124 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


haven; it is completely land-locked, and the whole navy of 
England might ride in it commodiously. 

On the sea face it is almost impregnable, for it would be 
little short of a miracle for an invading squadron to wind its 
way through the labyrinth of shoals and reefs lying off the 
mouth of it, amongst which the channels are so narrow and 
intricate, that at three or four points the sinking of a sand 
barge would effectually block up all ingress; but, independ- 
ently of this, the entrance at Port Royal is defended by very 
strong works, the guns ranging the whole way across, while, 
a little farther on, the attacking ships would be exposed to a 
cross fire from the heavy metal of the Apostles’ Battery ; and 
even assuming all these obstacles to be overcome, and the 
passage into the harbour forced, before they could pass the 
narrows to get up to the anchorage at Kingston, they would 
be blown out of the water by a raking fire from sixty pieces 
of large cannon on Port Augusta, which is so situated that 
they would have to turn to windward for at least half an 
hour, in a strait which, at the widest, would not allow them 
to reach beyond musket-shot of the walls. Fortunately, as 
yet Mr Canning had not called his New World into exist- 
ence, and the whole of the trade of Terra Firma, from Porto 
Cavello, down to Chagres, the greater part of the trade of the 
islands of Cuba and San Domingo, and even that of Lima 
and San Bias, and the other ports of the Pacific, carried on 
across the Isthmus of Darien, centered in Kingston, the 
usual supplies through Cadiz being stopped by the advance 
of the French in the Peninsula. The result of this princely 
traffic, more magnificent than that of Tyre, was a stream of 
gold and silver flowing into the Bank of England, to the ex- 
tent of three millions of pounds sterling annually, in return 
for British manufactures; thus supplying the sinews of war 
to the government at home, and, besides the advantage of so 
large a mart, employing an immense amount of British ton- 
nage, and many thousand seamen; and in numberless ways 
opening up new outlets to British enterprise and capital. 
Alas! alas! where is all this now? The echo of the empty 
stores might answer “ where ! ” 

On arriving at Kingston, my first object was to seek out 
Mr * * *, the admiral’s agent, and one of the most extensive 
merchants in the place, in order to deliver some letters to 
him, and get his advice as to my future proceedings. Mr 
Callaloo undertook to be my pilot, striding along abeam of 
me, and leaving in his wake two serpentine dottings on the 
pavement from the droppings of water from his voluminous 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 125 

coat-skirts, which had been thoroughly soaked by his recent 
ducking. 

Every thing appeared to be thriving, and as we passed 
along, the hot sandy streets were crowded with drays con- 
veying goods from the wharfs to the stores, and from the 
stores to the Spanish Posadas. The merchants of the place, 
active, sharp-looking men, were seen grouped under the 
piazzas in earnest conversation with their Spanish customers, 
or perched on the top of the bales and boxes just landed, 
waiting to hook the gingham-coated. Moorish-looking Dons, 
as they came along with cigars in their mouths, and a train 
of negro servants following them with fire buckets on their 
heads, filled with pesos fuertes. The appearance of the town 
itself was novel and pleasing; the houses, chiefly of two 
stories, looked as if they had been built of cards, most of 
them being surrounded with piazzas from ten to fourteen 
feet wide, gaily painted green and white, and formed by the 
roofs projecting beyond the brick walls or shells of the 
houses. On the ground floor these piazzas are open, and in 
the lower part of the town, where the houses are built con- 
tiguous to each other, they form a covered way, affording 
a most grateful shelter from the sun, on each side of the 
streets, which last are unpaved, and more like dry river- 
courses, than thoroughfares in a Christian town. On the 
floor above, the balconies are shut in with a sort of moveable 
blinds, called “jealousies,” like large-bladed Venetian blinds, 
fixed in frames, with here and there a glazed sash to admit 
light in bad weather when the blinds are closed. In the up- 
per part of the town the effect is very beautiful, every house 
standing detached from its neighbour, in its little garden 
filled with vines, fruit-trees, stately palms, and cocoa-nut 
trees, with a court of negro houses and offices behind, and a 
patriarchal-looking draw-well in the centre, generally over- 
shadowed by a magnificent wild tamarind. When I arrived 
at the great merchant’s place of business, I was shewn into 
a lofty cool room, with a range of desks along the walls, 
where a dozen clerks were quill-driving. In the centre sat 
my man, a small sallow, yet perfectly gentleman-like per- 
sonage. 

“ Dat is massa,” quoth my black usher. 

I accordingly walked up to him, and presented my letter. 
He never lifted his head from his paper, which I had half a 
mind to resent; but at the moment there was a bustle in the 
piazza, and a group of naval officers, amongst whom was, the 
admiral, came in. My silent friend was now alert enough 
and profuse of his bows and smiles. 


126 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Who have we here ? Who is that boy, L — ? ” said the 
admiral to his secretary. 

“Young Cringle, sir; the only one except Mr Splinter 
saved from the Torch; he was first on the Admiralty list 
t’other day.” 

“ What, the lad Willoughby spoke so well of ? ” 

“ The same, sir ; he got his promotion by last packet.” 

“I know, I know. I say, Mr Cringle, you are appointed 
to the Firebrand, do you know that ? ” — I did not know it, 
and began to fear my cruise on shore was all up. — “ But I 
don’t look for her from Havana for a month; so leave your 
address with L — , that you may get the order to join when 
she does come.” 

It appeared that I had seen the worst of the agent, for he 
gave me a very kind invitation to stay some days with him, 
and drove me home in his ketureen, a sort of sedan chair 
with the front and sides knocked out, and mounted on a 
gig body. 

Before dinner we were lounging about the piazza, and 
looking down into the street, when a negro funeral came 
past, preceded by a squad of drunken black vagabonds, sing- 
ing and playing on gumbies, or African drums, made out of 
pieces of hollow trees, about six feet long, with skins braced 
over them, each carried by one man, while another beats it 
with his open hands. The coffin was borne along on the 
heads of two negroes — a negro carries every thing on his 
head, from a bale of goods to a wine-glass or tea-cup. It is 
a practice for the bearers, when they come near the house of 
any one against whom the deceased was supposed to have 
had a grudge, to pretend that the coffin will not pass by, and 
in the present case, when they came opposite to where we 
stood, they began to wheel round and round, and to stagger 
under their load, while the choristers shouted at the top of 
their lungs. 

“We beg you, shipmate, for come along — do, broder, come 
away ; ” then another reel. “ What, you no wantee go in a 
hole, eh? You hab grudge ’gainst somebody lif here, eh! ” — 
Another devil of a lurch — “ Massa * * *’s housekeeper, eh ? 
Ah, it must be ! ” — A tremendous stagger — “ Oh, Massa * * *, 
dollar for drink; something to hold play [negro wake] in 
Spring-path, [the negro burying ground;] Bediacko say him 
won’t pass ’less you give it.” And here they began to spin 
round more violently than before; but at the instant a drove 
of bullocks coming along, they got entangled amongst them, 
and down went body and bearers and all, the coffin bursting 
in the fall, and the dead corpse, with its white grave-clothes 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


12 7 


and black face, rolling over and over in the sand amongst 
the feet of the cattle. It was immediately caught up, how- 
ever, bundled into the coffin again, and away they staggered, 
drumming and singing as loudly as before. 

The party at dinner was a large one; every thing in good 
style, wines superb, turtle, &c., magnificent, and the com- 
pany exceedingly companionable. A Mr Francis Fyall, (a 
great planting attorney, that is, an agent for a number of 
proprietors of estates, who preferred living in England, and 
paying a commission to him for managing in Jamaica, to 
facing the climate themselves,) to whom 1 had an introduc- 
tion, rather posed me, by asking me during dinner, if I would 
take any thing in the long way with him, which he explained 
by saying he would be glad to take a glass of small beer with 
me. This, after a deluge of Madeira, Champagne, and all 
manner of light wines, was rather trying; but I kept my 
countenance as well as I could. One thing I remember 
struck me as remarkable; just as we were rising to go to 
the drawing-room, a cloud of winged ants burst in upon us 
through the open windows, and had it not been for the glass- 
shades would have extinguished the candles; but when they 
had once settled on the table, they deliberately wriggled 
themselves free of their wings, as one would cast off a great- 
coat, and crept away in their simple and more humble ca- 
pacity of creeping things. 

Next day I went to wait on my relation, Mrs Palma. I 
had had a confoundedly hot walk through the burning sandy 
streets, and was nearly blinded by the reflection from them, 
as I ascended the front stairs. There are no carpets in the 
houses in Jamaica; but the floors, which are often of ma- 
hogany, are beautifully polished, and shine like a well-kept 
dinner table. They are, of course, very slippery, and require 
wary walking till one gets accustomed to them. The rooms 
are made exceedingly dark during the heat of the day, ac- 
cording to the prevailing practice in all ardent climates. A 
black footman, very handsomely dressed, all to his bare legs, 
(I thought at first he had black silk stockings on,) preceded 
me, and when he reached the drawing-room door, asked my 
name. I told him, “ Mr Cringle,” — whereupon he sung out, 
to my dismay — “Massa Captain Ringtail to wait pan 
Misses.” 

This put me out a leetle — especially as I heard some one 
say — “ Captain who ? — what a very odd name ! ” 

But I had no time for reflection, as I had not blundered 
three steps out of the glare of the piazza, into the palpable 
obscure of the darkened drawing-room, black as night from 


128 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the contrast, when I capsized headlong over an ottoman in 
the middle of the apartment, and floundered right into the 
centre of a group of young ladies, and one or two lapdogs, 
by whom it was conjointly occupied. Trying to recover my- 
self, I slipped on the glass-like floor, and came down stern 
foremost; and being now regularly at the slack end, for I 
could not well get lower, I sat still, scratching my caput in 
the midst of a gay company of morning visiters, enjoying 
the gratifying consciousness that I was distinctly visible to 
, them, although my dazzled optics could as yet distinguish 
nothing. To add to my pleasurable sensations, I now per- 
ceived, from the coldness of the floor, that in my downfall 
the catastrophe of my unmentionables had been grievously 
rent, but I had nothing for it but sitting patiently still 
amidst the suppressed laughter of the company, until I be- 
came accustomed to the twilight, and they, like bright stars, 
began to dawn on my bewildered senses in' all their loveli- 
ness, and prodigiously handsome women some of them were, 
for the Creoles, so far as figure is concerned, are generally 
perfect, while beautiful features are not wanting, and my 
travel had reconciled me to the absence of the rose from 
their cheeks. My eldest cousin Mary (where is there a name 
like Mary?) now approached; she and I were old friends, 
and many a junketing we used to have in my father’s house 
during the holydays, when she was a boarding-school girl in 
England. My hardihood and self-possession returned, under 
the double gratification of seeing her, and the certainty that 
my blushes (for my cheek3 were glowing like hot iron) could 
not have been observed in the subdued green light that per- 
vaded the room. 

“Well, Tom, since you are no longer dazzled, and see us 
all now, you had better get up, hadn’t you — you see mamma 
is waiting here to embrace you ? ” 

“ Why, I think myself I had better ; but when I broached- 
to so suddenly, I split my lower canvass, Mary, and I cannot 
budge until your mother lends me a petticoat.” 

“ A what ? you are crazy, Tom ” 

“ Not a whit, not a whit, why I have split my — ahem. 
This is speaking plain, an’t it ? ” 

Away tripped the sylph-like girl, and in a twinkling re- 
appeared with the desired garment, which in a convulsion 
of laughter she slipped over my head as I sat on the floor; 
and having fastened it properly round my waist, I rose and 
paid my respects to my warm-hearted relations. But that 
petticoat — it could not have been the old woman’s, there 
could have been no such virtue in an old woman’s petticoat; 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


129 


no, no, it must either have been a charmed garment, or — or 
— Mary’s own ; for from that hour I was a lost man, and the 
devoted slave of her large black eyes, and high pale fore- 
head. “ Oh, murder — you speak of the sun dazzling ; what is 
it to the lustre of that same eye of yours, Mary ! ” 

In the evening I escorted the ladies to a ball, (by the way, 
a West India ball-room being a perfect lantern, open to the 
four winds of heaven, is cooler, notwithstanding the climate, 
than a ball-room any where else,) and a very gay affair it 
turned out to be, although I had more trouble in getting ad- 
mittance than I bargained for, and was witness to as comical 
a row (considering the very frivolous origin of it, and the 
quality of the parties engaged in it) as ever took place even 
in that peppery country, where, I verily believe, the temper 
of the people, generous though it be in the main, is hotter 
than the climate, and that, God knows ; is sudoriferous 
enough. I was walking through the entrance saloon with 
my fair cousin on my arm, stepping out like a hero to the 
opening crash of a fine military band, towards the entrance 
of the splendid ball-room filled with elegant company, brill- 
iantly lighted up and ornamented with the most rare and 
beautiful shrubs and flowers, which no European conser- 
vatory could have furnished forth, and arched overhead with 
palm branches and a profusion of evergreens, while the pol- 
ished floor, like one vast mirror, reflected the fine forms of 
the pale but lovely black-eyed and black-haired West Indian 
dames, glancing amidst the more sombre dresses of their 
partners, while the whole group was relieved by being here 
and there spangled with a rich naval or military uniform. 
As we approached, a constable put his staff across the door- 
way. 

“ Beg pardon, sir, but you are not in full dress.” 

Now this was the first night whereon I had sported my 
lieutenant’s uniform, and with my gold swab on my shoul- 
der, the sparkling bullion glancing in the corner of my eye 
at the very moment, my dress-sword by my side, gold buckles 
in my shoes, and spotless white trowsers, I had, in my inno- 
cence, considered myself a deuced killing fellow, and felt 
proportionately mortified at this address.. 

“ No one can be admitted in trowsers, sir,” said the man. 

“ Shiver my timbers ! ” I could not help the exclamation, 
the transactions of the morning crowding on my recollec- 
tion, — “shiver my timbers? is my fate in this strange coun- 
try to be for ever irrevocably bound up in a pair of 
breeches ? ” 


130 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


My cousin pinched my arm. — “Hush, Tom; go home and 
get mamma’s petticoat.” 

The man was peremptory; and as there was no use in get- 
ting into a squabble about such a trifle, I handed my partner 
over to the care of a gentleman of the party, who was fortu- 
nately accoutred according to rule, and, stepping to my quar- 
ters, I equipped myself in a pair of tight nether integuments, 
and returned to the ball-room. By this time there was the 
devil to pay; the entrance saloon was crowded with military 
and naval men, high in oath, and headed 'by no less a person 
than a general officer, and a one-armed man, one of the chief 
civil officers in the place, and who had been a sailor in his 
youth. I was just in time to see the advance of the com- 
bined column to the door of the ball-room, through which 
they drove the picket of constables like chaff, and then 
halted. The one-armed functionary, a most powerful and 
very handsome man, now detached himself from the phalanx, 
and strode up to the advanced guard of stewards clustered in 
front of the ladies, who liad shrunk together into a corner of 
the room, like so many frightened hares. 

The place being now patent to me, I walked up to comfort 
my party, and could see all that passed. The champion of 
the Excluded had taken the precaution to roll up the legs of 
his trowsers, and to tie them tightly at the knee with his 
garters, which gave him the appearance of a Dutch skipper; 
and in all the consciousness of being now properly arrayed, 
he walked up to one of the men in authority — a small pot- 
bellied gentleman, and set himself to intercede for the at- 
tacking column, the head of which was still lowering at the 
door. But the little steward speedily interrupted him. 

“Why, Mr Singlefist, rules must be maintained, and let 
me see,” — here he peered through his glass at the substantial 
supporters of our friend, — “ as I live, you yourself are inad- 
missible.” 

The giant laughed. 

“Damn the body, he must have been a tailor! — Charge, 
my fine fellows, and throw the constables out of the window, 
and the stewards after them. Every man his bird ; and here 
goes for my Cock Robin.” With that he made a grab at his 
Lilliputian antagonist, but missed him, as he slid away 
amongst the women like an eel, while his pursuer, brandish- 
ing his wooden arm on high, to which I now perceived, for 
the first time, that there was a large steel hook appended, 
exclaimed, in a broad Scotch accent, “ Ah, if I had but 
caught the creature, I would have clapt this in his mouth, 
and played him like a salmon.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


131 

At this signal, in poured the mass of soldiers and sailors; 
the constables vanished in an instant; the stewards were 
driven back upon the ladies; and such fainting and scream- 
ing, and swearing and threatening, and shying of cards, and 
fixing of time and place for a cool turn in the morning, it 
had never been my good fortune to witness before or since. 
“ My wig ! ” thought I, “ a precious country, where a man’s 
life may be perilled by the fashion of the covering to his 
nakedness ! ” 

Next day, Mr Fyall, who, I afterwards learned, was a 
most estimable man in substantiate, although somewhat ec- 
centric in small matters, called and invited me to accom- 
pany him on a cruise amongst some of the estates under his 
management. This was the very thing I desired, and three 
days afterwards I left my kind friends in Kingston, and set 
forth on my visit to Mr Fyall, who lived about seven miles 
from town. 

The morning was fine as usual, although about noon the 
clouds, thin and fleecy and transparent at first, but gradually 
settling down more dense and heavy, began to congregate on 
the summit of the Liguanea Mountains, which rise about 
four miles distant, to a height of near 5000 feet, in rear of 
the town. It thundered too a little now and then in the 
same direction, but this was an every day occurrence in Ja- 
maica at this season ; and as I had only seven miles to go, off 
I started in a gig of mine host’s, with my portmanteau well 
secured under a tarpauling, in defiance of all threatening 
appearances, crowding sail, and urging the noble roan that 
had me in tow close upon thirteen knots. I had not gone 
above three miles, however, when the sky in a moment 
changed from the intense glare of a tropical noontide to the 
deepest gloom, as if a bad angel had suddenly overshadowed 
us, and interposed his dark wings between us and the blessed 
sun; indeed, so instantaneous was the effect, that it re- 
minded me of the withdrawing of the foot-lights in a thea- 
tre. The road now wound round the base of a precipitous 
spur from the Liguanea Mountains, which, instead of melt- 
ing into the level country by gradual decreasing undula- 
tions, shot boldly out nearly a mile from the main range, 
and so abruptly, that it seemed mortised into the plain, like 
a rugged promontory running into a frozen lake. On look- 
ing up along the ridge of this prong, I saw the lowering mass 
of black clouds gradually spread out, and detach themselves 
from the summits of the' loftier mountains, to which they 
had clung the whole morning, and begin to roll slowly down 
the hill, seeming to touch the tree tops, while along their 


132 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


lower edges hung a fringe of dark vapour, or rather shreds 
of cloudin rapid motion, that shifted about, and shot out 
and shortened like streamers. 

As yet there was no lightning nor rain, and in the expec- 
tation of escaping the shower, as the wind was with me, I 
made more sail, pushing the horse into a gallop, to the great 
discomposure of the negro who sat beside me. 

“Massa, you can’t escape it, you are galloping into it; 
don’t massa hear de sound of de rain coming along against 
de wind, and smell de earthy smell of him like one new- 
made grave ? ” 

“ The sound of the rain.” In another clime, long, long 
ago, I had often read at my old mother’s knee, “ And Elijah 
said unto Ahab, there is a sound of abundance of rain, pre- 
pare thy chariot, and get thee down, that the rain stop thee 
not; and it came to pass, in the meanwhile, that the heaven 
was dark with clouds and wind, and there was a great rain.” 

I looked, and so it was, for in an instant a white sheet of 
the heaviest rain I had ever seen (if rain it might be called, 
for it was more like a water-spout) fell from the low r er edge 
of the black cloud, with a strong rushing noise, that in- 
creased as it approached to a loud roar like that of a water- 
fall. As it came along, it seemed to devour the rocks and 
trees, for they disappeared behind the w r atery screen the in- 
stant it reached them. We saw it a-head of us for more than 
a mile coming along the road, preceded by a black line from 
the moistening of the white dust, right in the wind’s eye, 
and with such an even front, that I verily believe it was de- 
scending in bucketsful on my horse’s head, while as yet not 
one drop had reached me. At this moment the adjutant- 

general of the forces, Colonel F , of the Coldstream 

Guards, in his tandem, drawn by two sprightly blood bays, 
with his servant, a light boy, mounted Creole fashion on the 
leader, was coming up in my wake at a spot where the road 
sank into a hollow, and was traversed by a watercourse al- 
ready running knee deep, although dry as a bone but the 
minute before. 

I was now drenched to the skin, the water pouring out in 
cascades from both sides of the vehicle, when, just as I 
reached the top of the opposite bank, there was a flash of 
lightning so vivid, accompanied by an explosion so loud and 
tremendous, that my horse, trembling from stem to stern, 
stood dead still; the dusky youth by my side jumped out, 
and buried his snout in the mud, like a porker in Spain 
nuzzling for acorns, and I felt more queerish than 1 would 
willingly have confessed to. I could have knelt and prayed. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


133 


The noise of the thunder was a sharp ear-piercing crash, as 
if the whole vault of heaven had been made of glass, 
and had been shivered at a blow by the hand of the Almighty. 

it was, I am sure, twenty seconds before the usual roar 
and rumbling reverberation of the report from the hills, and 
among the clouds, was heard. 

I drove on, and arrived just in time to dress for dinner; 
but I did not learn till next day, that the flash which para- 
lyzed me, had struck dead the colonel’s servant and leading 
horse, as he ascended the bank of the ravine, by this time so 
much swollen, that the body of the lad was washed off the 
road into the neighbouring gully, where it was found, when 
the waters subsided, entirely covered with sand. 

I found the party congregated in the piazza round Mr 
Fyall, who was passing his jokes, without much regard to 
the feelings of his guests, and exhibiting as great a disregard 
of the common civilities and courtesies of life as can well be 
imagined. One of the party was a little red-faced gentleman, 
Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire, by name, who, in Jamaica par- 
lance, was designated an extraordinary master in Chancery; 
the overseer of the pen, or breeding farm, in the great house, 
as it is called, or mansion-house, in which Mr. Fyall resided, 
and a merry, laughing, intelligent, round, red-faced man; 
he was either Fyall’s head clerk, or a sort of first lieutenant; 
these personages and myself composed the party. The dinner 
itself was excellent, although rather of the rough and round 
order; the wines and food intrinsically good; but my appe- 
tite was not increased by the exhibition of a deformed, 
bloated negro child, about ten years old, which Mr Fyall 
planted at his elbow, and, by way of practical joke, stuffed 
to repletion with all kinds of food and strong drink, until 
the little dingy brute was carried out drunk. 

The wine circulated freely, and by and by Fyall indulged 
in some remarkable stories of his youth — for he was the only 
speaker — which I found some difficulty in swallowing, until 
at length, on one thumper being tabled, involving an impos- 
sibility, and utterly indigestible, I involuntarily exclaimed, 
“ by Jupiter! ” 

“You want any ting, massa?” promptly chimed in the 
black servant at my elbow, a diminutive kiln-dried old ne- 
gro. 

“No,” said I, rather caught. 

“ Oh, me tink you call for Jupiter.” 

I looked in the baboon’s face — “ Why, if I did, what 
then ? ” 

“ Only me Jupiter, at massa sarvice, dat all.” 


134 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“You are, eh, no great shakes of a Thunderer; and who 
is that tall square man standing behind your master’s 
chair ? ” 

“ Daddy Cupid, massa.” 

“And the old woman who is carrying away the dishes in 
the piazza ? ” 

“Mammy Weenus.” 

“ Daddy Cupid, and Mammy Weenus — Shade of Homer! ” 

Jupiter, to my surprise, shrunk from my side, as if he had 
received a blow, and the next moment I could hear him 
communing with Venus in the piazza. 

“For true, dat leetle man-of-war buccra must be Obeah 
man; how de debil him come to sabe dat it was stable-boy 
Homer who broke de candle shade on massa right hand, dat 
one wid de piece broken out of de edge ? ” and here he pointed 
towards it with his chin — a negro always points with his 
chin. 

I had never slept on shore out of Kingston before; the 
night season in the country in dear old England, we all 
know, is usually one of the deepest stillness — here it was any 
thing but still; — as the evening closed in, there arose a loud 
humming noise, a compound of the buzzing, and chirping, 
and whistling, and croaking of numberless reptiles and in- 
sects, on the earth, in the air, and in the water. I was 
awakened out of my first sleep by it, not that the sound was 
disagreeable, but it was unusual; and every now and then a 
beetle, the size of your thumb, would bang in through the 
open window, cruise round the room with a noise like a 
humming-top, and then dance a quadrille with half-a-dozen 
bats; while the fire-flies glanced like sparks, spangling the 
folds of the muslin curtains of the bed. The croak of the 
tree-toad, too, a genteel reptile, with all the usual loveable 
properties of his species, about the size of the crown of your 
hat, sounded from the neighbouring swamp, like some one 
snoring in the piazza, blending harmoniously with the nasal 
concert got up by Jupiter, and some other heathen deities, 
who were sleeping there almost naked, excepting the head, 
which every negro swathes during the night with as much 
flannel and as many handkerchiefs as he can command. By 
the way, they all slept on their faces — I wonder if this wiil 
account for their flat noses. 

Next morning we started at daylight, cracking along at 
the rate of twelve knots an hour in a sort of gig, with one 
horse in the shafts, and another hooked on a-breast of him 
to a sort of studdingsail-boom, or outrigger, and followed by 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


135 

three mounted servants, each with a led horse and two 
sumpter mules. 

In the evening we arrived at an estate under Mr Fyall’s 
management, having passed a party of maroons immediately 
before. I never saw finer men — tall, strapping fellows, 
dressed exactly as they should be and the climate requires; 
wide duck trowsers, over these a loose shirt, of duck also, 
gathered at the waist by a broad leathern belt, through 
which, on one side, their short cutlass is stuck, while on the 
other hangs a leathern pouch for ball, and a loose thong 
across one shoulder, supports, on the opposite hip, a large 
powder-horn and havresack. This, with a straw hat, and a 
short gun in their hand, with a sling to be used on a march, 
completes their equipment — in better keeping with the cli- 
mate, than the padded coats, heavy caps, tight cross-belts, 
and ponderous muskets of our regulars. As we drove up to 
the door, the overseer began to bawl, “ Boys, boys ! ” and 
kept blowing a dog-call. All servants in the country in the 
West Indies, be they as old as Methuselah, are called boys. 
In the present instance, half-a-dozen black fellows forth- 
with appeared to take our luggage, and attend on “massa” 
in other respects. The great man was as austere to the poor 
overseer, as if he had been guilty of some misdemeanour, and 
after a few short, crabbed words, desired him to get supper, 
“ do you hear ? ” 

The meal consisted of plantation fare — salted fish, plan- 
tains, and yams ,and a piece of goat mutton. Another “ ob- 
serve,” — a South-Down mutton, after sojourning a year or 
two here, does not become a goat exactly, but he changes 
his heavy warm fleece, and wears long hair; and his progeny 
after him, if bred on the hot plains, never assume the wool 
again. Mr Fyall and I sat down, and then in walked four 
mutes, stout young fellows, not over well dressed, and with 
faces burnt to the colour of brick-dust. They were the 
bookkeepers, so called because they never see a book, their 
province being to attend the negroes in the field, and to 
superintend the manufacture of sugar and rum in the boil- 
ing and distilling-houses. 

One of them, the head bookkeeper, as he was called, ap- 
peared literally roasted by the intensity of the sun’s rays. 

“How is Baldy Steer?” said the overseer to this person. 

“Better to-day, sir, — I drenched him with train-oil and 
sulphur.” 

“ The devil you did,” thought I — “ alas ! for Baldy.” 

“And Mary, and Caroline, and the rest of that lot?” 

“Are sent to Perkins’s Red Rover, sir; but I believe some 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


136 

of them are in calf already by Bullfinch — and I have cut 
Peter for the lampas.” 

The knife and fork dropped from my hands. “ What can 
all this mean? is this their boasted kindness to their slaves? 
One of a family drenched with train-oil and brimstone, an- 
other cut for some horrible complaint never heard of before, 
called lampas, and the females sent to the Red Rover, some 
being in calf already ! ” But I soon perceived that the baked 
man was the cow-boy or shepherd of the estate, making his 
report of the casualties amongst his bullocks, mules, and 
heifers. 

“ Juliet Ridge will not yield, sir,” quoth another. 

“ Who is this, next ? a stubborn concern she must be.” 

The liquor is very poor.” Here he helped himself to 
rum and water, the rum coming up about an inch in the 
glass, regular half and half, fit to float a marlinspike. 

“ It is more than yours is,” thought I ; and I again stared 
in wonderment, until I perceived he spoke of the juice of a 
cane patch. 

At this time a tall, lathy gentleman came in, wearing a 
most original cut coatee. He was a most extraordinary 
built man; he had absolutely no body, his bottom being 
placed between his shoulders, but what was wanted in corpus 
was made up in legs; indeed he looked like a pair of com- 
passes, buttoned together at the shoulders, and supporting a 
yellow phiz half a yard long, thatched with a fell of sandy 
hair, falling down lank and greasy on each side of his face. 
Fyall called him Buckskin, which, with some other circum- 
stances, made me guess that he was neither more nor less 
than an American smuggler. 

After supper, a glass of punch was filled for each person; 
the overseer gave a rap on the table with his knuckles, and 
off started the bookkeepers, like shots out of shovels, leaving 
the Yankee, Mr Fyall, the overseer, and myself at table. 

I was very tired, and reckoned on going to bed now — but 
no such thing. Fyall ordered Jupiter to bring a case from 
his gig-box, containing some capital brandy. A new brewage 
of punch took place, and I found about the small hours that 
we were all verging fast towards drunkenness, or something 
very like that same. The Yankee was specially plied by Fy- 
all, evidently with an object, and he soon succeeded in mak- 
ing him helplessly drunk. 

The fun now “ grew fast and furious,” — a large wash-tub 
was ordered in, placed under a beam at the corner of the 
room, and filled with water; a sack and a three-inch rope 
were then called for and promptly produced by the blackies. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


137 


who, apparently accustomed to Fyall’s pranks, grinned with 
delight. — Buckskin was thrust into the sack, feet foremost; 
the mouth of it was then gathered round his throat with a 
string, and I was set to splice a bight in the rope, so as to fit 
under his arms without running, which might have choked 
him. All things being prepared, the slack end was thrown 
over the beam. He was soused in the tub, the word was 
given to hoist away, and we ran him up to the roof, and 
then belayed the rope round the body of the overseer, who 
was able to sit on his chair, and that was all. The cold bath, 
and the being hung up to dry, speedily sobered the Ameri- 
can, but his arms being within the sack, he could do nothing 
for his own emancipation; he kept swearing, however, and 
entreating, and dancing with lage, every jerk drawing the 
cord tighter round the waist of the overseer, who, unaware 
of his situation, thought himself bewitched as he was drawn 
with violence by starts along the floor, with the chair as it 
were glued to him. At length the patient extricated one of 
his arms, and laying hold of the beam above him, drew him- 
self up, and then letting go his hold suddenly, fairly lifted 
the drunken overseer, chair and all, several feet from the 
ground, so as to bring them on a level with himself, and 
then, in mid air, began to pummel his counterpoise with 
right good will. At length, fearful of the consequences from 
the fury into which the man had worked himself, Fyall and 
I dashed out the candles, and fled to our rooms, where, after 
barricading the doors, we shouted to the servants to let the 
gentlemen down. 

The next morning had been fixed for duck-shooting, and 
the overseer and I were creeping along amongst the man- 
grove bushes on the shore, to get a shot at some teal, when 
we saw our friend, the pair of compasses, crossing the small 
bay in his boat, towards his little pilot-boat-built schooner, 
which was moored in a small creek opposite, the brushwood 
concealing every thing but her masts. My companion, as 
wild an Irishman as I ever knew, hailed him. 

“Hillo, Obediah — Buckskin — you Yankee rascal, heave-to. 
Come ashore here — come ashore.” 

Obed, smoking his pipe, deliberately uncoiled himself — 
I thought, as he rose, there was to be no end of him — and 
stood upright in the boat, like an ill-rigged jurymast. 

“I say, Master Tummas, you ben’t no friend of mine, I 
guess, a’ter last night’s work ; you hears how I coughs ? ” — 
and he began to wheezle and crow in a most remarkable 
fashion. 

“Never mind,” rejoined the overseer; “if you go round 


138 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

that point, and put up the ducks — by the piper, but I’ll fire 
at you ! ” 

Obed neighed like a horse expecting his oats, wnich was 
meant as a laugh of derision. “ Do you think your birding- 
piece can touch me here away, Master Tummas?” And 
again he nichered more loudly than before. 

“ Don’t provoke me to try, you yellow snake, you ! ’ 

“ Try, and be d d, and there’s a mark for thee,” un- 

veiling a certain part of his body. 

The overseer, or busha, to give him his Jamaica name, 
looked at me and smiled, then coolly lifted his long Spanish 
barrel, and fired. Down dropped the smuggler, and ashore 
came the boat. 

“ I am mortally wounded, Master Tummas,” quoth Obed; 
and I was confoundedly frightened at first, from the unusual 
proximity of the injured part to his head; but the overseer, 
as soon as he could get off the ground, where he had thrown 
himself in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, had the man 
stripped and laid across a log, where he set his servant to 
pick out the pellets with a penknife. 

Next night I was awakened out of my first sleep by a 
peculiar sort of tap, tap, on the floor, as if a cat with walnut 
shells had been moving about the room. The feline race, in 
all its varieties, is my destestation, so I slipped out of bed to 
expel the intruder, but the instant my toe touched the ground, 
it was seized as if by a smith’s forceps. I drew it into bed, 
but the annoyance followed it; and in an agony of alarm 
and pain, I thrust my hand down, when my thumb was in- 
stantly manacled to the other suffering member. I now lost 
my wits altogether, and roared murder, which brought a 
servant in with a light, and there I was, thumb and toe, in 
the clinch of a land-crab. 

I had been exceedingly struck with the beauty of the negro 
villages on the old settled estates, which are usually situated 
in the most picturesque spots, and I determined to visit the 
one which lay on a sunny bank full in view from my window, 
divided on two sides from the cane pieces by a precipitous 
ravine, and on the other two by a high logwood hedge, so like 
hawthorn, that I could scarcely tell the difference, even when 
close to it. 

At a distance, it had the appearance of one entire orchard 
of fruit-trees, where were mingled together the pyramidal 
orange* in fruit and in flower, the former in all its stages, 
from green to dropping ripe, — the citron, lemon, and lime- 
trees, the stately, glossy-leaved star-apple, the golden shad- 
dock and grape-fruit, with their slender branches bending un- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


139 


der their ponderous yellow fruit, — the cashew, with its apple 
like those of the cities of the plain, fair to look at, but acrid to 
the taste, to which the far-famed nut is appended like a bud, 
• — the avocada, with its Brobdingnag pear, as large as a pur- 
ser’s lantern, — the bread-fruit, with a leaf, one of which 
would have covered Adam like a bishop’s apron, and a 
fruit, for all the world, in size and shape like a blacka- 
moor’s head; while for underwood, you had the green, fresh, 
dew-spangled plantain, round which, in the hottest day, 
there is always a halo of coolness, — the coco root, the yam 
and granadillo, with their long vines twining up the neigh- 
bouring trees and shrubs like hop-tendrils, — and peas and 
beans, in all their endless variety of blossom and of odour, 
from the Lima bean, with a stalk as thick as my arm, to 
the mouse pea, three inches high, — the pine-apple, literally 
growing in, and constituting, with its prickly leaves, part of 
the hedge-rows, — the custard-apple, like russet-bags of cold 
pudding, — the cocoa and coffee bushes, and the devil knows 
what all that is delightful in nature besides; while aloft, 
the tall graceful cocoa-nut, the majestic palm, and the gi- 
gantic wild cotton-tree, shot up here and there like mina- 
rets far above the rest, high into the blue heavens. 

I entered one of the narrow winding footpaths, where an 
immense variety of convolvuli crept along the penguin 
fences disclosing their delicate flowers in the morning 
freshness, (all that class here shut shop at noon,) and pas- 
sion flowers of all sizes, from a soup plate to a thumb ring. 

The huts were substantially thatched with palm leaves, 
and the walls woven with a basket-work of twigs, plastered 
over with clay, and whitewashed; the floors were of baked 
clay, dry and comfortable. They all consisted of a hall and 
a sleeping-room off each side of it: in many of the former I 
noticed mahogany sideboards and chairs, and glass decan- 
ters, while a whole lot of African drums and flutes, and 
sometimes a good gun, hung from the rafters; and it would 
have gladdened an Irishman’s heart to have seen the adjoin- 
ing piggeries. Before one of the houses an old woman was 
taking care of a dozen black infants, little naked, glossy, 
black guinea pigs, with party-coloured beads tied round 
their loins, each squatted like a little Indian pagod in the 
middle of a large wooden bowl, to keep it off the damp 
ground. 

While I was pursuing my ramble, a large conch-shell was 
blown at the overseer’s house, and the different gangs 
turned in to dinner; they came along, dancing and shout- 
ing, and playing tricks on each other in the little paths. 


T40 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


in all the happy anticipation of a good dinner, and an hour 
and a half to eat it in, the men well clad in Osnaburg frocks 
and trowsers, and the women in baize petticoats and Osna- 
burg shifts, with a neat printed calico short gown over all. 

“And these are slaves,” thought I, “ and this is West In- 
dian bondage! Oh that some of my well-meaning anti-slavery 
friends were here to judge from the evidence of their own 
senses ! ” 

The following night there was to be a grand play or wake 
in the negro houses, over the head cooper, who had died in 
the morning, and I determined to be present at it although 
the overseer tried to dissuade me, saying that no white per- 
son ever broke in on these orgies, that the negroes were very 
averse to their doing so, and that neither he, nor any of the 
white people on the estate, had ever been present on such 
an occasion. This very interdict excited my curiosity still 
more; so I rose about midnight, and let myself gently down 
through the window, and shaped my course in the direction 
of the negro houses, guided by a loud drumming, which, as 
I came nearer, every now and then sunk into a low mur- 
muring roll, when a strong bass voice would burst forth into 
a wild recitative; to which succeeded a loud piercing chorus 
of female voices, during which the drums were beaten with 
great vehemence; this was succeeded by another solo, and 
so on. There was no moon, and I had to thread my way 
along one of the winding footpaths by star-light. When I 
arrived within a stone-cast of the hut before which the play 
was being held, I left the beaten track, and crept onwards, 
until I gained the shelter of the stem of a wild cotton-tree, 
behind which I skulked unseen. 

The scene was wild enough. Before the door a circle was 
formed by about twenty women, all in their best clothes, sit- 
ting on the ground, and swaying their bodies to and fro, 
while they sung in chorus the wild dirge already mentioned, 
the words of which I could not make out; in the centre of 
the circle sat four men playing on gumbies, or the long drum 
formerly described, while a fifth stood behind them, with a 
conch-shell, which he kept sounding at intervals. Other three 
negroes kept circling round the outer verge of the circle of 
women, naked all to their waist cloths, spinning about and 
about with their hands above their heads, like so many danc- 
ing dervishes. It was one of these three that from time to 
time took up the recitative, the female chorus breaking in 
after each line. Close to the drummers lay the body in an 
open coffin, supported on two low stools or trestles: a piece of 
flaming resinous wood was stuck in the ground at the head. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


141 


and another at the feet ; and a lump of kneaded clay, in which 
another torch-like splinter was fixed, rested on the breast. 
An old man, naked like the solo singer, was digging a grave 
close to where the body lay. The following was the chant : — 

“I say, broder, you can’t go yet.” 

THEN THE CHORUS OF FEMALE VOICES. 

“ When de morning star rise, den we put you in a hole.” 

CHORUS AGAIN. 

“ Den you go in a Africa, you see Fetish dere.” 

CHORUS. 

“You shall nyam goat dere, wid all your family.” 

CHORUS. 

“ Buccra can’t come dere ; say, dam rascal, why you no work ? ” 

CHORUS. 

“ Buccra can’t catch Duppy,* no, no.” 

CHORUS. 

Three calabashes, or gourds, with pork, yams, and rum, 
were placed on a small bench that stood close to the head of 
the bier, and at right angles to it. 

In a little while, the women, singing-men, and drummers, 
suddenly gave a loud shout, or rather yell, clapped their 
hands three times, and then rushed into the surrounding cot- 
tages, leaving the old grave-digger alone with the body. 

He had completed the grave, and had squatted himself on 
his hams beside the coffin, swinging his body as the women 
had done, and uttering a low moaning sound, frequently 
ending in a loud peek , like that of a paviour when he brings 
down his rammer. 

I noticed he kept looking towards the east, watching, as I 
conjectured, the first appearance of the morning star, but it 
was as yet too early. 

He lifted the gourd with the pork, and took a large mouth- 
ful. 

“ How is dis ! I can’t put dis meat in Quacco’s coffin, dere 
is salt in de pork; Duppy can’t bear salt,” another large 
mouthful — “ Duppy hate salt too much,” — here he ate it all 
up, and placed the empty gourd in the coffin. He then took 
up the one with boiled yam in it, and tasted it also. 

“Salt here too — who de debil do such a ting? — must not 
let Duppy taste dat.” He discussed this also, placing the 
empty vessel in the coffin as he had done with the other. He 
then came to the calabash with the rum. There is no salt 
here, thought I. 

“Rum! ah, Duppy love rum — if it be well strong, let me 
* Duppy , Ghost. 


142 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


see — Massa Niger, who put water in dis rum, eh? Duppy 
will never touch dat ” — a long pull — “ no, no, never touch 
dat.” Here he finished tne whole, and placed the empty ves- 
sel beside the others; then gradually sunk back on his hams 
with his mouth open, and his eyes starting from the sockets, 
as he peered up into the tree, apparently at some terrible ob- 
ject. I looked up also, and saw a large yellow snake, nearly 
ten feet long, let itself gradually down directly over the 
coffin, between me and the bright glare, (the outline of its 
glossy mottled skin glancing in the strong light, which gave 
its dark opaque body the appearance of being edged with 
flame, and its glittering tongue, that of a red-hot wire,) with 
its tail round a limb of the cotton tree, until its head reached 
within - an inch of the dead man’s face, which it licked with 
its long forked tongue, uttering a loud hissing noise. 

I was fascinated with terror, and could not move a muscle ; 
at length the creature slowly swung itself up again, and dis- 
appeared amongst the branches. 

Quashie gained courage, as the rum began to operate, and 
the snake to disappear. “ Come to catch Quacco’s Duppy, 
before him get to Africa, sure as can be. De metody parson 
say dq debil old sarpant — dat must be old sarpant, for I 
never see so big one, so it must be debil.” 

He caught a glimpse of my face at this moment ; it seemed 
that I had no powers of fascination like the snake, for he 
roared out, “ Murder, murder, de debil, de debil, first like a 
sarpant, den like himself ; see him white face behind de tree ; 
see him white face behind de tree ; ” and then, in the ex- 
tremity of his fear, he popt, head foremost, into the grave, 
leaving his quivering legs and feet sticking upwards, as if he 
had been planted by the head, like a forked parsnip reversed. 

At this uproar, a number of negroes ran out of the nearest 
houses, and, to my surprise, four white seamen appeared 
suddenly amongst them, who, the moment they got sight of 
my uniform, as I ran away, gave chase, and having overtaken 
me, as I stumbled in the dark path, immediately pinioned 
me. They were all armed, and I had no doubt were part of 
the crew of the smuggling schooner, and that they had a 
depot amongst the negro houses. 

“Yo ho, my hearty, heave-to, or here goes with a brace of 
bullets.” 

I told them who I was, and that curiosity alone brought 
me there. 

“Gammon, tell that to the marines; you’re a spy, mess- 
mate, and on board you go with us, so sure as I be Paul 
Brandywine.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


M3 


Here was a change with a vengeance. An hour before I 
was surrounded by friends, and resting comfortably m my 
warm bed, and now 1 was a prisoner to a set of brigands, 
who were smugglers at the best, and what might they not 
be at the worst? I had no chance of escape by any sudden 
effort of strength or activity, for a piece of a handspike had 
been thrust across my back, passing under both of my arms, 
winch were tightly lashed to it, as if I had been trussed for 
roasting, so that I could no more run, with a chance of es- 
cape, than a goose withoi t her pinions. After we left the 
negro houses, I perceived, with some surprise, that my cap- 
tors kept the beaten track, leading directly to, and passed the 
overseer’s dwelling. “ Come, here is a chance, at all events,” 
argued I to myself. “ If I get within hail, I will alarm the 
lieges, if a deuced good pipe don’t fail me.” 

This determination had scarcely been formed in my mind, 
when, as if my very thoughts had been audible, the smug- 
gler next me on the right hand drew a pistol, and held it 
close to my starboard ear. 

“Friend, if you tries to raise the house, or speaks to any 
Niger, or other person we meets, I’ll walk through your skull 
with two ounces of lead.” 

“ You are particularly obliging,” said I; “ but what do you 
promise yourselves by carrying me off? Were you to mur- 
der me, you would be none the richer; for I have no valua- 
bles about me, as you may easily ascertain by searching me.” 

“ And do you think that freeborn Americans like we have 
kidnapped you for your dirty rings, and watch, and mayhap 
a few dollars, which I takes you to mean by your waiuboles, 
as you calls them ? ” 

“ Why, then, what, in the devil’s name, have you kidnapped 
me for ? ” And I began to feel my choler overpowering my 
discretion, when Mr Paul Brandywine, who I now suspected 
to be the mate of the smuggler, took the small liberty of 
jerking the landyard, that had been made fast to the middle 
of the handspike, so violently, that I thought both my shoul- 
ders were dislocated; but I was fairly checked down on my 
back, just as you may have seen a pig-merchant on the Fer- 
moy road bring an uproarious boar to his marrow-bones ; while 
the man who had previously threatened to blow my brains 
out, knelt beside me, and civilly insinuated, that “ if I was 
tired of my life, he calculated I had better speak as loud 
again.” 

There was no jest in all this; so I had nothing for it but 
to walk silently along with my escort, after having gathered 
myself up as well as I could. We crept so close under the 


144 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


windows of the overseer’s house, where we picked up a lot of 
empty ankers, slung on a long pole, that I fancied I heard, 
or really did hear, some one snore — oh how I envied the 
sleeper! At length we reached the beach, where we found 
two men lying on their oars, in what, so far as I could dis- 
tinguish, appeared to be a sharp swift-looking whale boat, 
which they kept close to, with her head seaward, however, 
to be ready for a start, should any thing suspicious appear 
near to them. 

The boat-keeper hailed promptly, “ Who goes there ? ” as 
they feathered their oars. 

“ The tidy little Wave,” was the answer. 

No more words passed; and the men, who had, in the first 
instance, pulled a stroke or two to give the boat way, now 
backed water, and tailed her on to the beach, when we all 
stepped on board. 

Two of my captors now took each an oar; we shoved off, 
and glanced away through the darkness, along the smooth 
surface of the sparkling sea, until we reached the schooner, 
by this time hauled out into the fairway at the mouth of the 
cove, where she lay hove short, with her mainsail hoisted up, 
riding to the land-wind, and apparently all ready to cant and 
be off the moment the boat returned. 

As we came alongside, the captain of her, my friend Obe- 
diah, as I had no difficulty in guessing, from his very out 
of the way configuration, dark as it was, called out, “ I says, 
Paul, who have you got into the starn-sheets there ? ” 

A bloody spy, captain; he who was with the overseer 
when he peppered your sheathing t’other morning.” 

“ Oho, bring him on board — bring him on board. I knows 
t .ere be a man-of-war schooner close aboard of the island 
somewheres hereabouts. I sees through it all, smash my 
eyes! — I sees through it. But what kept you, Paul? Don’t 
you see the morning star has risen ? ” 

By this time I stood on the deck of the little vessel, which 
was not above two feet out of the water ; and Obediah, as he 
spoke, pointed to the small dark pit of a companion, for there 
was no light below, nor indeed any where on board, except 
in the binnacle, and that carefully masked, indicating, by 
his threatening manner, that I was to get below as speedily 
as possible. 

“ Don’t you see the morning star, sir? Why, the sun will 
be up in an hour, I calculate, and then the sea-breeze will 
be down on us before we get any thing of an offing.” 

The mention of the morning star recalled vividly to my 
recollection the scene I had so recently witnessed at the negro 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


145 


wake ; it seemed there was another person beside poor Quacco, 
likely to be crammed into a hole before the day broke, and 
to be carried to Africa too, for what I knew; but one must 
needs go when the devil drives, so I slipped down into the 
cabin, and the schooner having weighed, made sail to the 
northward. 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE CHASE OF THE SMUGGLER 

“ Would I were in an alehouse in London, I would give all my fame for a 
pot of ale, and safety. ” King Henry V. 

The crib in which I was confined was as dark as pitch, and, 
as I soon found, as hot as the black-hole in Calcutta. I 
don’t pretend to be braver than my neighbours, but I would 
pluck any man by the beard who called me coward. In my 
small way I had in my time faced death in various shapes; 
but it had always been above board, with the open heaven 
overhead, and generally I had a goodly fellowship in danger, 
and the eyes of others were upon me. No wonder, then, that 
the sinking of the heart within me, which I now experienced 
for the first time, was bitter exceedingly, and grievous to be 
borne. Cooped up in a small suffocating cabin, scarcely eight 
feet square, and not above five feet high, with the certainty 
of being murdered, as I conceived, were I to try to force my 
way on deck; and the knowledge that all my earthly pros- 
pects, all my dreams of promotion, were likely to be blasted, 
and for ever ruined by my sudden spiriting away, not to 
take into the heavy tale the misery which my poor mother 
and my friends must suffer when they came to know it — 
and “who will tell this to thee, Mary?” rose to my throat, 
but could get no farther for a cursed bump that was like to 
throttle me. Why should I blush to own it — when the gipsy, 
after all, jinked an old rich goutified coffee-planter at the 
eleventh hour, and married me, and is now the mother of 
half-a-dozen little Cringles or so '$ However, I made a strong 
effort to bear my misfortunes like a man, and, folding my 
arms, I sat down on a chest to abide my fate, whatever that 
might be, with as much composure as I could command, when 
half-a-dozen cockroaches flew flicker flicker against my face. 

For the information of those who have never seen this deli- 


146 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


cious insect, I take leave to mention here, that, when full 
grown, it is a large dingy brown-coloured beetle, about two 
inches long, with six legs, and two feelers as long as its body. 
It has a strong anti-hysterical flavour, something between 
rotten cheese and asafcetida, and seldom stirs abroad when 
the sun is up, but lies concealed in the most obscure and 
obscene crevices it can creep into; so that, when it is seen, 
its wings and body are thickly covered with dust and dirt of 
various shades, which any culprit who chances to fall asleep 
with his mouth open, is sure to reap the benefit of, as it has 
a great propensity to walk into it, partly for the sake of the 
crumbs adhering to the masticators, and also, apparently, 
with a scientific desire to inspect, by accurate admeasurement 
with the aforesaid antennae, the state and condition of the 
whole potato trap. 

At the same time I felt something gnawing the toe of my 
boot, which I inferred to be a rat — another agreeable cus- 
tomer for which I had a special abhorrence; but, as for bee- 
tles of all kinds, from my boyhood up, they had been an 
abomination unto me, and a cockroach is the most abomi- 
nable of all beetles ; so between the two I was speedily roused 
from my state of supine, or rather dogged endurance; and, 
forgetting the geography of my position, I sprung to my feet, 
whereby I nearly fractured my skull against the low deck 
above. I first tried the skylight ; it was battened down — then 
the companion hatch; it was locked — but the ladder leading 
up to it being cooler than the noisome vapour bath I had left, 
I remained standing in it, trying to catch a mouthful of fresh 
air through the joints of the door. All this while we had 
been slipping along shore with the land-wind on our beam, 
at the rate of five or six knots, but so gently and silently, that 
I could distinctly hear the roar of the surf, as the long 
smooth swell broke on the beach, which, from the loudness of 
the noise, could not be above a mile to windward of us. I 
perceived, at the same time, that the schooner, although 
going free, did not keep away, nor take all the advantage of 
the land-wind to make his easting, before the sea-breeze set 
down, that he might have done, so that it was evident he did 
not intend to beat up, so as to fetch the Crooked Island Pas- 
sage, which would have been his course, had he been bound 
for the States; but was standing over to the Cuba shore, at 
that time swarming with pirates. 

It was now good daylight, and the terra l gradually died 
away, and left us rolling gunwale under, as we rose and fell 
on the long seas, with our sails flapping, bulk-heads creaking 
and screaming, and mainboom jig-jigging, as if it would have 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


147 


torn every thing to pieces. I could hear my friend Obed 
walking the deck, and whistling manfully for the sea-breeze, 
exclaiming from time to time in his barbarous lingo, 
“ Souffle, souffle, San Antonio.” But the saint had no bow- 
els, and there we lay roasting until near ten o’clock in the 
forenoon. During all this period, Obed, who was short- 
sighted, kept desiring his right arm, Paul Brandywine, to 
keep a bright look-out for the sea-breeze to windward, or 
rather to the eastward, for there was no wind — “ because he 
knowed it oftentimes tumbled down right sudden and dan- 
gerous at this season about the corner of . the island here- 
abouts; and the pride of the morning often brought a shower 
with it, fit to level a maize plat smooth as his hand.” 

“No black clouds to windward yet, Paul? ” 

Paul could see nothing, and the question was repeated three 
or four times. 

“ There is a small black cloud about the size of my hand 
to windward, sir, right in the wake of the sun, just now, but 
it won’t come to any thing; I sees no signs of any wind.” 

“ And Elijah said to his servant, Go up now, and look 
towards the sea ; and he went up, and looked, and said, There 
is nothing. And he said. Go again seven times; and it came 
to pass the seventh time, that he said, Behold, there ariseth 
a little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s hand.” 

I knew what this foreboded, which, as I thought, was more 
than friend Obed did; for he shortened no sail, and kept all 
his kites abroad, for no use as it struck me, unless he wished 
to wear them out by flapping against the masts. He was in- 
deed a strange mixture of skill and carelessness; but, when 
fairly stirred up, one of the most daring and expert and self- 
possessed seamen I had ever seen, as I very soon had an ugly 
opportunity of ascertaining. 

The cloud on the horizon continued to rise rapidly, spread- 
ing over the whole eastern sky, and the morning began to 
lower very ominously; but there was no sudden squall, the 
first of the breeze coming down as usual in cats’ paws, and 
freshening gradually; nor did I expect there would be, al- 
though I was certain it would soon blow a merry capful of 
wind, which might take in some of the schooner’s small sails, 
and pretty considerably bother us, unless we could better our 
offing speedily, for it blew right on shore, which, by the set- 
ting in of the sea-breeze, was now close under our lee. 

At length the sniffler reached us, and the sharp little vessel 
began to speak , as the rushing sound through the water is 
called: while the wind sang like an seolian harp through the 
taught weather-rigging. Presently I heard the word given 


148 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


to take in the two gaff-topsails and flying jib, which was 
scarcely done, when the moaning sound roughened into a 
roar, and the little vessel began to yerk at the head seas, as if 
she w'ould have cut through them, in place of rising to them, 
and to lie over, as if Davy Jones himself had clapperclawed 
the mast heads, and was in the act of using them as levers to 
capsize her, while the sails were tugging at her, as if they 
would have torn the spars out of her, so that I expected every 
moment, either that she would turn over, keel up, or that the 
masts would snap short off by the deck. 

All this, which I would without the smallest feeling of 
dread, on the contrary with exhilaration, have faced cheerily 
on deck in the course of duty, proved at the time, under my 
circumstances, most alarming and painful to me ; a f air-strao 
death out of the maintop, or off the weather yard-arm, would 
to my imagination have been an easy exit comparatively; 
hut to be choked in this abominable hole, and drowned dark- 
ling like a blind puppy — the very thought made me frantic, 
and I shouted and tumbled about, until I missed my footing 
and fell backwards down the ladder, from the bottom of 
which I scuttled away to the lee-side of the cabin, quiet, 
through absolute despair and exhaustion from the heat and 
closeness. 

I had remarked that from the time the breeze freshened 
the everlasting Yankee drawling of the crew, and the endless 
confabulation of the captain and his mate, had entirely 
ceased, and nothing was now heard on deck but the angry 
voice of the raging elements, and at intervals a shrill piercing 
word or two from Obed, in the altered tone of which I had 
some difficulty in recognizing his pipe, which rose clear and 
distinct above the roar of the sea and wind, and was always 
answered by a prompt, sharp, “ Ay, ay, sir,” from the men. 
There was no circumlocution, nor calculating, nor guessing 
now. but all hands seemed to be doing their duty energeti- 
cally and well. “ Come, the vagabonds are sailors after all, 
we shan’t be swamped this turn ; ” and I resumed my place 
on the companion ladder, with more ease of mind, and a vast 
deal more composure, than when I was pitched from it when 
the squall came on. In a moment after I could hear the cap- 
tain sing out, loud even above the howling of the wind and 
rushing of the water, “ There it comes at last — put your 
helm hard a-port — down with it, Paul, down with it, man 
— luff, and shake the wind out of her sails, or over she goes, 
clean and for ever.” Every thing was jammed, nothing could 
be let go, nor was there an axe at hand to make short 
work with the sheets and haulyards ; and for a second or two 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


HD 

I thought it was all over, the water rushing half way up her 
decks, and bubbling into the companion through the crevices ; 
but at length the lively little craft came gaily to the wind, 
shaking her plumage like a wild-duck; the sails were got in, 
all to the foresail, which was set with the bonnet off, and 
then she lay-to like a sea-gull, without shipping a drop of 
water. In the comparative stillness I could now distinctly 
hear every word that was said on deck. 

“ Pretty near it ; rather close shaving that same, captain,” 
quoth Paul, with a congratulatory chuckle; “but I say, sir, 
what is that wreath of smoke rising from Annotta Bay over 
the headland ? ” 

“Why, how should I know, Paul? Negroes burning brush, 
I guess.” 

“ The smoke from brushwood never rose and flew over the 
bluff with that swirl, I calculate; it is a gun, or I mistake.” 

And he stepped to the companion, for the purpose, as I 
conceived, of taking out the spy-glass, which usually hangs 
there in brackets fitted to hold it; he undid the hatch and 
pushed it back, when I popped my head out, to the no small 
dismay of the mate; but Obed was up to me, and while with 
one hand he seized the glass, he ran the sliding top sharp up 
against my neck, till he pinned me into a kind of pillory, 
to my great annoyance; so I had to beg to be released, and 
once more slunk back into my hole. There was a long pause; 
at length Paul, to whom the skipper had handed the spy-glass, 
spoke. 

“ A schooner, sir, is rounding the point ? ” 

As I afterwards learned, the negroes who had witnessed my 
capture, especially the old man who had taken me for his in- 
fernal majesty, had raised the alarm, so soon as they could 
venture down to the overseer’s house, which was on the smug- 
gling boat shoving off, and Mr. Fyall immediately despatched 
an express to the Lieutenant commanding the Gleam, then 
lying in Annotta Bay, about ten miles distant, when she in- 
stantly slipped and shoved out. 

“ Well, I can’t help it if there be,” rejoined the captain. 

Another pause. 

“ Why, I don’t like her, sir ; she looks like a man-of-war — 
and that must have been the smoke of the gun she fired on 
weighing.” 

“ Eh? ” sharply answered Obed, “ if it be, it will be a hang- 
ing matter if we are caught with this young splice on board; 
he may belong to her for what I know. Look again, Paul.” 

A long, long look. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


150 

“ A man-of-war schooner, sure enough, sir, I can see her en- 
sign and pennant, now that she is clear of the land.” 

“ O Lord, O Lord ! ” cried Obed, in great perplexity, “ what 
shall we do ? ” 

“ Why, pull foot, captain,” promptly replied Paul ; “ the 
breeze has lulled, and in light winds she will have no chance 
with the tidy little Wave.” 

I could now perceive that the smugglers made all sail, and 
I heard the frequent swish-swish of the water, as they threw 
bucketsful on the sails to thicken them and make them hold 
more wind, while we edged away, keeping as close to the 
wind, however, as we could, without stopping her way. 

“ Starboard,” quoth Obed — “ rap full, Jem — let her walk 
through it, my boy — there, main and foresail, flat as boards; 
why, she will stand the main-gaff-topsail yet — set it, Paul, set 
it ; ” and his heart warmed as he gained confidence in the 
qualifications of his vessel. “ Come, weather me now, see how 
she trips it along — poo I was an ass to quail, wan’t I, Paul? ” 

“No chance, now,” thought I, as I descended once more; 
“ I may as well go and be suffocated at once.” I knocked my 
foot against something, in stepping off the ladder, which, on 
putting down my hand, I found to be a tinder-box, with steel 
and flint. I had formerly ascertained there was a candle in 
the cabin, on the small table, stuck into a bottle ; so I imme- 
diately struck a light, and as I knew that meekness and 
solicitation, having been tried in vain, would riot serve me, I 
determined to go on the other tack, and to see how far an as- 
sumption of coolness and self-possession, or, it might be, a 
dash of bravado, whether true or feigned, might not at least 
ensure me some consideration and better treatment from the 
lawless gang into whose hands I had fallen. 

So I set to and ransacked the lockers, where, amongst a 
vast variety of miscellaneous matters, I was not long in find- 
ing a bottle of very tolerable rum, some salt junk, some 
biscuit, and a goglet, or porous earthen jar, of water, with 
some capital cigars. Py this time I was like to faint with the 
heat and smell ; so I filled a tumbler with good half-and-half, 
and swigged it off. The effect was speedy ; I thought I could 
eat a bit, so I attacked the salt junk and made a hearty meal, 
after which I replenished my tumbler, lighted a cigar, pulled 
off my coat and waistcoat, and with a sort of desperate glee, 
struck up at the top of my pipe, “Ye Mariners of England.” 
My joviality was soon noticed on deck. 

“ Eh, what be that ? ” quoth Obed, — “ that he none of our 
ditties, I guess — who is singing below there ? ” 

“ We be all on deck, sir,” responded Paul. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


151 

u It can’t be the spy, eh ? — sure enough it must be he, and 
no one else ; the heat and choke must have made him mad.” 

“We shall soon see,” said Paul, as he removed the skylight, 
and looked down into the cabin. 

Obed looked over his shoulder, peering at me with his little 
shortsighted pigs’ eyes, into which, in my pot valiancy, I im- 
mediately chucked half a tumbler of very strong grog, and 
under cover of it attempted to bolt through the scuttle, and 
thereby gain the deck ; but Paul, with his shoulder of mutton 
fist, gave me a very unceremonious rebuff, and down I 
dropped again. 

“ You makes yourself at home, I sees, and be hanged to 
you,” said Obed, laying the emphasis on the last word, pro- 
nouncing it yoo — 00 ” in two syllables. 

“ I do, indeed, and be d d to yoo — 00,” I replied ; “ and 

why should I not? the visit was not volunteered, you know; 
so come down, you long-legged Yankee smuggling scoundrel, 
or I’ll blow your bloody bucaniering craft out of the water 
like the peel of an onion. You see I have got the magazine 
scuttle up, and there are the barrels of powder, and here is 
the candle, so ” 

Obed laughed liked the beginning of the bray of the jack- 
ass before he swings off into his “heehaw, heehaw.” — “ Smash 
my eyes, man, but them barrels be full of pimento, all but 
that one with the red mark, and that be crackers fresh and 
sharp from the Brandywine mills.” 

“ Well, well, gunpowder or pimento, I’ll set fire to it if you 
don’t be civil.” 

“ Why, I will be civil ; you are a curious chap, a brave slip, 
to carry it so, with no friend near ; so, civil I will be.” 

He unlocked the companion hatch and came down to the 
cabin, doubling his long limbs up like foot-rules, to suit the 
low roof. 

“ Free and easy, my man,” continued the captain, as he en- 
tered. “ Well, I forgive you — we are quits now — and if we 
were not beyond the island craft, I would put you ashore, but 
I can’t stand back now.” 

“Why, may I ask?” 

“ Simply, because one of your men-of-war schooners an’t 
more than hull down astarn of me at this moment; she is 
working up in shore, and has not chased me as yet; indeed 
she may save herself the trouble, for ne’er a schooner in your 
blasted service has any chance with the tidy little Wave.” 

I was by no means sure of this. 

“ Well, Master Obediah, it may turn up as you say, and in 
a light wind, I know you will either sail or sweep away from 


152 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


any one of them; but, to be on the square with you, if it 
comes on to blow, that same hooker, which I take to be his 
Britannic Majesty’s schooner Gleam, will, from his greater 
beam, and superior length, outcarry and forereach on you, ay, 
and weather on you too, hand over hand; so this is my com- 
pact — if he nails you, you will require a friend at court, and 
I will stand that friend; if you escape — and I will not inter- 
fere either by advice or otherwise, either to get you taken or 
to get you clear — will you promise to put me on board of the 
first English merchant vessel we fall in with, or, at the long- 
est, to land me at St Jago de Cuba, and I will promise you, 
on my honour, notwithstanding all that has been said or done, 
that I will never hereafter inform against you, or in any way 
get you into trouble if I can help it. Is it done? Will you 
give me your hand upon it ? ” 

Obed did not hesitate a moment; he clenched my hand, 
and squeezed it till the blood nearly spouted from my finger- 
ends; one might conceive of Norwegian bears greeting each 
other after this fashion, but I trust no Christian will ever, in 
time coming, subject my digits to a similar species of torture. 

“ Agreed, my boy, I have promised, and you may depend on 
me; smuggler though I be, and somewhat worse on occasion 
mayhap, I never breaks my word.” 

There was an earnestness about the poor fellow, in which 
I thought there could be no deception, and from that moment 
we were on what I may call a very friendly footing for a 
prisoner and his jailer. 

“ Well, now, I believe you, so let us have a glass of grog, 
and ” 

Here the mate sung out, “ Captain, come on deck, if you 
please; quickly, sir, quickly.” 

By this time it had begun to breeze up again, and as the 
wind rose , I could see the spirits of the crew fell , as if con- 
scious they had no chance if it freshened. When we went on 
deck, Paul was still peering through the telescope. 

“ The schooner has tacked, sir.” A dead silence ; then giv- 
ing the glass a swing, and driving the joints into each other, 
with such vehemence as if he would have broken them in 
pieces, he exclaimed, “ She is after us, so sure as I ben’t a 
niger.” 

“No! is she though?” eagerly inquired the captain, as he 
at length seized the spy-glass, twisting and turning it about 
and about, as he tried to hit his own very peculiar focus. At 
length he took a long, breathless look, while the eyes of the 
whole crew, some fifteen hands or so, were riveted upon him 
with the most intense anxiety. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


153 


“ What a gaff- topsail she has got — my eye ! — and a ring- 
tail with more cloths in it than our squaresail — and the 
breeze comes down stronger and stronger ! ” 

All this while I looked out equally excited, but with a 
very different interest. “ Come, this will do,” thought I; 
“ she is after us ; and if old Dick Gasket brings that fiery sea- 
breeze he has now along with him, we shall puzzle the smug- 
gler, for all his long start.” 

“ There’s a gun, sir,” cried Raul, trembling from head to 
foot. 

“ Sure enough,” said the skipper ; ” “ and it must be a sig- 
nal. And there go three flags at the fore. — She must, I’ll bet 
a hundred dollars, have taken our tidy little Wave for the 
Admiral’s tender that was lying in Morant Bay.” 

“Blarney,” thought I; “tidy as your little Wave is, she 
won’t deceive old Dick — he is not the man to take a herring 
for a horse; she must be making signals to some man-of-war 
in sight.” 

“ A strange sail right a-head,” sung out three men from 
forward all at once. 

“ Didn’t I say so ? ” — I had only thought so. “ Come, Mas- 
ter Obediah, it thickens now, you’re in for it,” said I. 

But he was not in the least shaken; as the matter grew se- 
rious. he seemed to brace up to meet it. He had been flurried 
at the first, but he was collected and cool as a cucumber now, 
when he saw everything depending on his seamanship and 
judgment. Not so Paul, who seemed to have made up his 
mind that they must be taken. 

“ Jezebel Brandywine, you are but a widowed old lady, I 
calculate. I shall never see the broad, smooth Chesapeake 
again, — no more peach brandy for Paul ; ” and folding his 
arms, he set himself doggedly down on the low tafferel. 

Little did I think at the time how fearfully the poor fel- 
low’s foreboding was so soon to be fulfilled. 

“ There again,” said I, “ a second puff to windward.” This 
was another signal gun I knew ; and I went forward to where 
the captain was reconnoitermg the sail a-head through the 
glass. “ Let me see,” said I, “ and I will be honest with you, 
and tell you if I know her.” 

He handed me the glass at once, and the instant I saw the 
top of her courses above the water, I was sure, from the red 
cross in her foresail, that she was the Firebrand, the very 
corvette to which I was appointed. She was so well to wind- 
ward, that I considered it next to impossible that we should 
weather her, but Obediah seemed determined to try it. After 
seeing his little vessel snug under mainsail, foresail, and jib. 


154 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


which was as much as she could stagger under, and every- 
thing right and tight, and all clear to make more sail should 
the breeze lull, he ordered the men below, and took the helm 
himself. What queer animals sailors are! We were rising the 
corvette fast, and on going aft again from the bows, where 
I had been looking at her, I cast my eye down the hatchway 
into the men’s berth, and there were the whole crew at break- 
fast, laughing and joking, and enjoying themselves, as heart- 
ily, apparently, nay, I verily believe in reality, as if they had 
been in a yacht on a cruise of pleasure, in place of having one 
enemy nearly within gunshot a-stern, and another trying to 
cut them off a-head. 

At this moment the schooner in chase luffed up in the wind, 
and I noticed the foot of the foresail lift. “ You’ll have it 
now, friend Obed; there’s at you in earnest.” While I spoke, 
a column of thick white smoke spouted over the bows of the 
Gleam, about twenty yards dead to windward, and then blew 
back again amongst the sails and rigging, as if a gauze veil 
had for an instant been thrown over the little vessel, rolling 
off down the wind in whirling eddies, growing thinner and 
thinner, until it disappeared altogether. I heard the report 
this time, and the shot fell close alongside of us. 

“ A good mark with that apple,” coolly observed the cap- 
tain; “ the Long Tom must be a tearer, to pitch its mouthful 
of iron this length.” 

Another succeeded; and if I had been still pinned up in 
the companion, there would have been no log now, for it went 
crash through into the hold. 

“ Go it, my boys,” shouted I; “a few more as well aimed, 
and heigh for the Firebrand’s gun-room ! ” 

At the mention of the Firebrand I thought Obed started, 
but he soon recovered himself, and looking at me with all the 
apparent composure in the world, he smiled as he said, “ Not 
so fast, lieutenant; you and I have not drank our last glass 
of swizzle yet, I guess. If I can but weather that chap a-head, 
I don’t fear the schooner.” 

The corvette had by this time answered the signal from the 
Gleam, and had hauled his wind also, so that I did not con- 
ceive it possible that the Wave could scrape clear, without 
coming under his broadside. 

“You won’t try it, Obed, surely?” 

“ Answer me this, and I’ll tell you,” rejoined he. “ Does 
that corvette now carry long 18’s or 32-pound carronades?” 

“ She carries 32-pound carronades.” 

“ Then you’ll not sling your cot in her gunroom this 
cruise.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


155 


All this time the little Wave was carrying to it gallantly, 
her jib-boom bending like whalebone, and her long slender 
topmasts whipping about like a couple of fishing-rods, as she 
thrashed at it, sending the spray flashing over her mastheads 
at every pitch; but notwithstanding her weatherly qualities, 
the heavy cross sea, as she drove into it, headed her off bodily, 
and she could not prevent the Gleam from creeping up on 
her weather quarter, where she peppered away from her long 
24-pounder, throwing the shot over and over us. 

To tack, therefore, would have been to run into the lion’s 
mouth, and to bear up was equally hopeless, as the corvette, 
going free, would have chased her under water; the only 
chance remaining was to stand on, and trust to the breeze 
taking off, and try to weather the ship, now about three miles 
distant on our lee bow, braced sharp up on the opposite tack, 
and evidently quite aware of our game. 

As the corvette and the Wave neared each other, he threw 
a shot at us from the boat gun on his topgallant forecastle, 
as if to ascertain beyond all doubt the extent of our insanity, 
and whether we were serious in our attempt to weather him 
and escape. 

Obed held right on his course , like grim Death. Another 
bullet whistled over our mastheads, and, with the aid of the 
glass, I could see, by the twinkling of feet, and here and there 
a busy peering face through the ports, that the crew were at 
quarters fore and aft, while fourteen marines or so were all 
ready rigged on the poop, and the nettings were bristling 
through the whole length of the ship, with fifty or sixty 
small-arm men. 

All this I took care to communicate to Obediah. “ I say, 
my good friend, I see little to laugh at in all this. If you 
do go to windward of him at all, which I greatly doubt, you 
will have to cross his fore-foot within pistol-shot at the 
farthest, and then you will have to rasp along his whole 
broadside of great and small, and they are right well prepared 
and ready for you, that I can tell you; the skipper of that 
ship has had some hedication, I guess, in the war on your 
coast, for he seems up to your tricks, and I don’t doubt but 
he will tip you the stem, if need be, with as little compunc- 
tion as I would kill a cockroach, devil confound the whole 
breed! There, — I see his marines and small-arm men hand- 
ling their firelocks, as thick as sparrows under the lee of a 
hedge in a snow-storm, and the people are training the bull- 
dogs fore and aft. Why, this is downright, stark staring 
lunacy, Obed; we shall be smashed like an egg-shell, and all 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


156 

hands of us whipped off to Davy, from your cursed foolhardi- 
ness.” 

I had made several pauses in my address, expecting an an- 
swer, but Obed was mute as a stone. At length I took the 
glass from my eye, and turned round to look at him, startled 
by his silence. 

I might have heard of such things, but I had never before 
seen the working of the spirit so forcibly and fearfully de- 
monstrated by the aspect of the outward man. With the ex- 
ception of myself, he was the only man on deck, as before 
mentioned, and by this time he was squatted down on it, with 
his long legs and thighs thrust down into the cabin, through 
the open skylight. The little vessel happened to carry a 
weather helm, so that his long sinewy arms, with their large 
veins and leaders strained to cracking, covered but a small 
way below the elbow by his jacket, were stretched as far as 
they could clutch the tiller to windward, and his enormous 
head, supported on his very short trunk, that seemed to be 
countersunk into the deck, gave him a most extraordinary ap- 
pearance. But this was not all; his complexion, usually sal- 
low and sunburnt, was now ghastly and blue, like that of the 
corpse of a drowned man; the muscles of the neck, and the 
flesh of the cheeks and chin were rigid and fixed, and shrunk 
into one half of their usual compass; the lips were so com- 
pressed that they had almost entirely disappeared, and all 
that marked his mouth was a black line; the nostrils were 
distended, and thin and transparent, while the forehead was 
shrivelled into the most minute and immovable wrinkles, as 
if done with a crimping instrument, while over his eyes, or 
rather his eye, for he kept one closed as if it had been her- 
metically sealed, he had lashed with half-a-dozen turns of 
spun-yarn a wooden socket, like the butt-end of an opera 
glass, fitted with some sort of magnifier, through which he 
peered out a-head most intensely,' stooping down, and stretch- 
ing his long bare neck to its utmost reach, that he might see 
under the foot of the foresail. 

I had scarcely time to observe all this, when a round shot 
came through the head of the mainsail, grazing the mast, 
and the very next instant a bushel of grape, from one of the 
bow guns, a 32-pound carronade, was crashed in on us a-mid- 
ships. I flung down the glass, and dived through the com- 
panion into the cabin — I am not ashamed to own it ; and any 
man who would undervalue my courage in consequence, can 
never, taking into consideration the peculiarities of my situa- 
tion, have known the appalling sound, or infernal effect of a 
discharge of grape. Round shot in broadsides is a joke to it; 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


157 


musketry is a joke to it; but only conjure up in your imagi- 
nation, a shower of iron bullets, of the size of well-grown 
plums, to the number of from sixty to one hundred and 
twenty, taking effect within a circle, not above ten feet in 
diameter, and that all this time there was neither honour nor 
glory in the case, for I was a miserable captive, and I fancy 
1 may save myself the trouble of farther enlargement. 

I found that the crew had by this time started and taken 
up the planks of the cabin floor, and had stowed themselves 
well down into the run, so as to be as much out of harm’s 
way as they could manage, but there was neither fear nor 
flinching amongst them; and although totally devoid of all 
gasconade — on the contrary, they had taken all the precau- 
tions men could do in their situation, to keep out of harm’s 
way, or at least to lessen the danger — there they sat, silent, 
and cool, and determined. “ I shall never undervalue an 
American as an enemy again,” thought I. I lay down on the 
side of the little vessel, now nearly level as she lay over, 
alongside of Paul Brandywine, in a position that commanded 
a view of Obed’s face through the small scuttle. Ten minutes 
might have elapsed — a tearing crash — and a rattle on the 
deck overhead, as if a shower of stones had been thrown from 
aloft on it. 

“ That’s through the mainmast, I expect,” quoth Paul. 

I looked from him to the captain; a black thick stream of 
blood was trickling down behind his ear. Paul had noticed it 
also. 

“ You are hurt by one of them splinters, I see; give me the 
helm now, Captain ; ” and, crushed down as the poor fellow 
appeared to be under some fearful and mysterious conscious- 
ness of impending danger, he nevertheless addressed himself 
to take his captain’s place. 

“ Hold your blasted tongue ” — was the polite rejoinder. 

“ I say, captain,” — shouted your humble servant, “ you may 
as well eat peas with a pitchfork, as try to weather him. You 
are hooked, man, flounder as you will. Old Nick can’t shake 
you clear — so I won’t stand this any longer; ” and making a 
spring, I jammed myself through the skylight, until I sat on 
the deck, looking aft and confronting him, and there we were 
stuck up like the two kings of Brentford, or a couple of smil- 
ing cherries on one stalk. I have often laughed at the figure 
we must have cut, but at the time there was that going on 
that would have made Comus himself look grave. I had at 
length fairly aroused the sleeping devil within him. 

“ Look out there, lieutenant — look out there,” — and he 
pointed with his sinister claw down to leeward. I did so 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


158 

— whew! — what a sigh for poor Master Thomas Cringle! 
“ You are booked for an outside place, Master Tommy,” 
thought I to myself — for there was the corvette in very 
truth — she had just tacked, and was close aboard of us on 
our lee quarter, within musket-shot at the farthest, bowling 
along upon a wind, with the green, hissing, multitudinous 
sea surging along her sides, and washing up in foam, like 
snow flakes, through the mid-ship ports, far aft on the 
quarterdeck, to the glorification of Jack, who never minds a 
wet jacket, so long as he witnesses the discomfiture of his 
ally, Peter Pipeclay. The press of canvass she was carrying 
laid her over, until her copper sheathing, clear as glass, 
and glancing like gold, was seen, high above the water, 
throughout her whole length, above which rose her glossy jet 
black bends, surmounted by a milk-white streak, broken at 
regular intervals into eleven goodly ports, from which the 
British cannon, ugly customers at the best, were grinning, 
tompion out, open-mouthed at us; and above all, the clean, 
well stowed white hammocks filled the nettings, from tafferel 
to cat-head — oh! that I had been in one of them, snug on 
the berth deck! Aloft, a cloud of white sail swelled to the 
breeze, till the cloth seemed inclined to say good-by to the 
bolt ropes, bending the masts like willow-wands, (as if the 
devil, determined to beat Paganini himself, was preparing 
fiddlesticks to play a spring with, on the cracking and strain- 
ing weather shrouds and backstays,) and tearing her sharp 
wedge-like bows out of the bowels of the long swell, until the 
cutwater, and ten yards of the keel next to it, were hove clean 
out of the sea, into which she would descend again with a 
roaring plunge, burying every thing up to the hause-holes, 
and driving the brine into mist, over the fore-top, like vapour 
from a waterfall, through which, as she rose again, the bright 
red copper on her bows flashed back the sunbeams in momen- 
tary rainbows. We were so near, that I could with the naked 
eye distinctly see the faces of the men. There were at least 
150 determined fellows at quarters, and clustered with mus- 
kets in their hands, wherever they could be posted to most ad- 
vantage. 

There they were in groups about the ports, (I could even 
see the captains of the guns, examining the locks,) in their 
clean white frocks and trowsers, the officers of the ship, and 
the marines, clearly distinguishable by their blue or red jack- 
ets. I could discern the very sparlde of the epaulets. 

High overhead, the red cross, that for a thousand years 
“ has braved the battle and the breeze,” blew out strong from 
the peak, like a sheet of flickering white flame, or a thing 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


159 


instinct with life, struggling to tear away the ensign haul- 
yards, and to escape high into the clouds; while, from the 
main-royal-masthead, the long white pennant streamed up- 
wards into the azure heavens, like a ray of silver light. Oh! 
it was a sight “ most beautiful to see,” as the old song hath 
it, — but I confess I would have preferred that pleasure from 
t’other side of the hedge. 

There was no hailing nor trumpeting, although, as we 
crossed on opposite tacks when we first weathered her, just 
before she hove in stays, I had heard a shrill voice sing out, 
“ Take good aim, men — fire; ” but now each cannon in thun- 
der shot forth its glance of flame, without a word being ut- 
tered, as she kept away to bring them to bear in succession, 
while the long feathery cloud of whirling white smoke that 
shrouded her sides from stem to stern, was sparkling brill- 
iantly throughout with crackling musketry, for all the world 
like fire-flies in a bank of night fog from the hills, until the 
breeze blew it back again through the rigging, and once more 
unveiled the lovely craft in all her pride and glory. 

“ You see all that,” said Obed. 

“ To be sure I do, and I feel something too ; ” for a sharp 
rasping jar was repeated in rapid succession three or four 
times, as so many shot struck our hull, and made the splinters 
glance about merrily ; and the musket-balls were mottling our 
top sides and spars, plumping into the timber, whit whit! as 
thick as ever you saw schoolboys plastering a church-door 
with clay-pellets. There was a heavy groan, and a stir 
amongst the seamen in the run. 

“ And, pray, do you see and hear all that yourself, Master 
Obed ? The iron has clenched some of your chaps down there. 
Stay a bit, you shall have a better dose presently, you obsti- 
nate old ” 

He waved his hand, and interrupted me with great energy 
— “ I dare not give in, I cannot give in ; all I have in the 
world swims in the little hooker, and strike I will not so long 
as two planks stick together.” 

“ Then,” quoth I, “ you are simply a damned, cold-blooded, 
calculating scoundrel — brave I will never call you.” I saw 
he was now stung to the quick. 

“ Lieutenant, smuggler as I am, don’t goad me to what 
worse I may have been; there are some deeds done in my 
time, which at a moment like this I don[t much like to think 
upon. I am a desperate man, Master Cringle ; don’t, for your 
own sake, as well as mine, try me too far.” 

“ Well but ” persisted I. He would hear nothing. 

“ Enough said, sir, enough said ; there was not an honester 


i6o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


trader, nor a happier man in all the Union, until your in- 
fernal pillaging and burning squadron in the Chesapeake 
captured and ruined me ; but I paid it off on the prizemaster, 
although we were driven on the rocks after all. I paid it off, 
and, God help me, I have never thriven since, enemy although 

he was. I see the poor fellow’s face yet, as I ” He checked 

himself suddenly, as if aware that he might say more than 
could be conveniently retracted. “But I dare not be taken; 
let that satisfy you, Master Cringle, so go below — below with 
you, sir ” — I saw he had succeeded in lashing himself into a 
fury — “ or, by the Almighty God, who hears me, I shall be 
tempted to do another deed, the remembrance of which will 
haunt me till my dying day ! ” 

All this passed irf no time, as we say, much quicker than, 
one can read it; and I now saw that the corvette had braced 
up sharp to the wind again, on the same tack that we were 
on; so I slipped down like an eel, and once more stretched 
myself beside Paul, on the lee side of the cabin. We soon 
found that she was indeed after us in earnest, by the renewal 
of the cannonade, and the breezing up of the small arms 
again. Two round shot now tore right through the deck, just 
beneath the larboard coamings of the main hatchway ; the lit- 
tle vessel’s deck, as she lay over, being altogether exposed to 
the enemy’s fire, they made her whole frame tremble again, 
smashing every thing in their way to shivers, and going right 
out through her bottom on the opposite side, within a dozen 
streaks of her keel, while the rattling of the clustered grape- 
shot every now and then made us start, the musketry all the 
while peppering away like a hail shower. Still the skipper, 
who I expected every moment to see puffed away from the 
tiller like smoke, held upon deck as if he had been bullet- 
proof, and seemed to escape the hellish tornado of missiles of 
all sorts and sizes by a miracle. 

“ He is in league with the old one, Paul,” said I ; “ how- 
soever, you must be nabbed, for you see the ship is forereach- 
ing you, and you can’t go on t’other tack, surely, with 
these pretty eyelet holes between wind and water on the 
weather side there? Your captain is mad — why will you, 
then, and all these poor fellows, go down, because he dare not 
surrender, for some good deed of his own, eh ? ” 

The roar of the cannon and noise of the musketry made it 
necessary for me to raise my voice here, which the small scut- 
tle, like Dionysius’s ear, conveyed unexpectedly to my friend, 
the captain, on deck. 

“ Hand me up my pistols, Paul.” 

It had struck me before, and I was now certain, that from 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


161 


the time he had become so intensely excited as he was now, 
he spoke with a pure English accent, without the smallest 
dash of Yankeeism 

“ So, so ; I see — no wonder you won’t strike, you rene- 
gade,” cried I. 

“ You have tampered with my crew, sir, and abused me,” 
he announced, in a stern, slow tone, much more alarming 
than his former fierceness, “ so take that, to quiet you ; ” and 
deuce take me if he did not, the moment he received the pis- 
tols from his mate, fire slap at me, the ball piercing the large 
muscle of my neck on the right side, missing the artery by 
the merest accident. Thinking I was done for, I covered my 
face with my hands, and commended myself to God, with all 
the resignation that could be expected from a poor young fel- 
low in my grievous circumstances, expecting to be cut off in 

the prima vera of his days, and to part for ever from . 

Poo, that there line is not my forte. However, finding the 
haemorrhage by no means great, and that the wound was in 
fact slight, I took the captain’s rather strong hint to be still, 
and lay quiet, until a 32-pound shot struck us bang on the 
quarter. The subdued force with which it came, shewed that 
we were widening our distance, for it did not drive through 
and through with a crash, but lodged in a timber ; neverthe- 
less it started one of the planks across which Paul and I lay, 
and pitched us both with extreme violence bodily into the run 
amongst the men, three of them lying amongst the ballast, 
which was covered with blood, two badly wounded, and one 
dead. I came off with some slight bruises, however; not so 
the poor mate. He had been nearest the end or butt that was 
started, which thereby struck him so forcibly, that it frac- 
tured his spine, and dashed him amongst his shipmates, 
shrieking piercingly in his great agony, and clutching what- 
ever he could grasp with his hands, and tearing whatever he 
could reach with his teeth, while his limbs below his waist 
were dead and paralyzed. 

“ Water, water,” he cried, “ water, for the love of God, 
water ! ” The crew did all they could ; but his torments' in- 
creased — the blood began to flow from his mouth — his hands 
became clay-cold and pulseless — his features sharp, blue, and 
death-like — his respiration difficult — the choking death-rattle 
succeeded, and in ten minutes he was dead. 

This was the last shot that told — every report became more 
and more faint, and the musketry soon ceased altogether. 

The breeze had taken off, and the Wave, resuming her su- 
periority in light winds, had escaped. 


1 62 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


CHAPTER IX 

CUBA FISHERMEN 

“ El Pescador de Puerto Escondido 
Pesca mas que Pescado 
Quando la Luna redonda 
Reflexado en la mar profunda. 

Pero cuidado 

El pobre sera el nino perdido 
Si esta por Anglisman cojido 
Ay de mi.” 

It was now five in the afternoon, and the breeze continued 
to fall, and the sea to go down, until sunset, by which time 
we had run the corvette hull down, and the schooner nearly 
out of sight. Eight a-head of us rose the high land of Cuba, 
to the westward of Cape Maize, clear and well-defined against 
the northern sky; and as we neither hauled our wind to 
weather the east end of the island, nor edged away for St. 
Iago, it was evident, beyond all doubt, that we were running 
right in for some one of the piratical haunts on the Cuba 
coast. 

The crew now set to work, and removed the remains of 
their late messmate, and the two wounded men, from where 
they lay upon the ballast in the run, to their own berth for- 
ward in the bows of the little vessel; they then replaced the 
planks which they had started, and arranged the dead body 
of the mate along the cabin floor, close to where I lay, faint 
and bleeding, and more heavily bruised than I had at first 
thought. 

The captain was still at the helm; he had never spoken a 
word either to me or any of the crew, since he had taken the 
trifling liberty of shooting me through the neck, and no 
thanks to him that the wound was not mortal; but he now 
resumed his American accent, and began to drawl out the 
necessary orders for repairing damages. 

When I went on deck shortly afterwards, I was sur- 
prised beyond measure to perceive the injury the little vessel 
had sustained, and the uncommon speed, handiness, and skill, 
with which it had been repaired. However lazily the com- 
mand might appear to have been given, the execution of it 
was quick as lightning. The crew, now reduced to ten work- 
ing hands, had, with an almost miraculous promptitude, 
knotted and spliced the rigging, mended and shifted sails. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 163 

fished the sprung- and wounded spars, and plugged and nailed 
lead over the shot-holes, and all within half an hour. 

I don’t like Americans; I never did, and never shall like 
them; I have seldom met with an American gentleman, in 
the large and complete sense of the term. I have no wish 
to eat with them, drink with them, deal with, or consort with 
them in any way; but let me tell the whole truth, nor fight 
with them, were it not for the laurels to be acquired, by over- 
coming an enemy so brave, determined, and alert, and every 
way so worthy of one’s steel, as they have always proved. One 
used to fight with a Frenchman, as a matter of course, and 
for the fun of the thing as it were, never dreaming of the 
possibility of Johnny Crapeau beating us, where there was 
any thing approaching to an equality of force; but, say as 
much as w T e please about larger ships and more men, and a 
variety of excuses which proud John Bull, with some truth 
very often I will admit, has pertinaciously thrust forward to 
palliate his losses during the short war, a regard for truth 
and fair dealing, which I hope are no scarce qualities 
amongst British seamen, compels me to admit, that although 
I would of course peril my life and credit more readily with 
an English crew, yet I believe a feather would turn the scale 
between the two countries, so far as courage and seamanship 
goes; and let it not be forgotten, although we have now re- 
gained our superiority in this respect, yet, in gunnery and 
small-arm practice, we were as thoroughly weathered on by 
the Americans during the war, as we overtopped them in the 
bull-dog courage with which our boarders handled those 
genuine English weapons, the cutlass and pike. 

After the captain had given his orders, and seen the men 
fairly at work, he came down to the cabin, still ghastly and 
pale, but with none of that ferocity stamped on his grim 
features, from the outpouring of which I had suffered so se- 
verely. He never once looked my way, no more than if I 
had been a bundle of old junk; but folding his hands on his 
knee, he sat down on a small locker, against which the feet of 
the dead mate rested, and gazed earnestly on his face, which 
was immediately under the open skylight, through which, by 
this time, the clear cold rays off the moon streamed full on 
it, the short twilight having already fled, chained as it is in 
these climates to the chariot wheels of the burning sun. My 
eye naturally followed his, but I speedily withdrew it. I had 
often bent over comrades who had been killed by gunshot 
wounds, and always remarked, what is well-known, that the 
features wore a benign expression, bland and gentle, and con- 
tented as the face of a sleeping infant, while their limbs were 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


164 

composed decently, often gracefully, like one resting after 
great fatigue, as if nature like an affectionate nurse, had ar- 
ranged the death-bed of her departing child with more than 
usual care, preparatory to his last long sleep; whereas those 
who had died from the thrust of a pike, the blow of a cutlass, 
or any violent fracture, however mild the living expression of 
their countenance might have been, were always fearfully 
contorted both in body and face. 

In the present instance, the eyes were wide open, white, 
prominent, and glazed like those of a dead fish; the hair, 
which was remarkably fine, and had been worn in long ring- 
lets, amongst which a large gold ear-ring glittered, the poor 
fellow having been a nautical dandy of the first water, was 
drenched and clotted into heavy masses with the death-sweat, 
and had fallen back on the deck from his forehead, which 
was well-formed, high, broad, and massive. His nose was 
transparent, thin, and sharp, the tense skin on the bridge of 
it glancing in the silver light, as if it had been glass. His 
mouth was puckered on one side into angular wrinkles, like 
a curtain drawn up awry, while a clotted stream of black 
gore crept from it sluggishly down his right cheek, and co- 
agulated in a heap on the deck. His lower jaw had fallen, 
and there he lay agape with his mouth full of blood. 

His legs, indeed his whole body below his loins, where the 
fracture of the spine had taken place, rested precisely as they 
had been arranged after he died; but the excessive swelling 
and puffing out of his broad chest, contrasted shockingly with 
the shrinking of the body at the pit of the stomach, by which 
the arch of the ribs was left as well defined as if the skin had 
been drawn over a skeleton, and the distortion of the muscles 
of the cheeks and throat evinced the fearful strength of the 
convulsions which had preceded his dissolution. It was evi- 
dent, indeed, that throughout his whole person above the 
waist, the nervous system had been utterly shattered; the 
arms, especially, appeared to have been awfully distorted, for 
when crossed on his breast, they had to be forcibly fastened 
down at the wrists by a band of spun-yarn to the buttons of 
his jacket. His right hand was shut, with the exception of 
the fore-finger, which was" extended, pointing upwards; but 
the whole arm, from the shoulder, down, had the horrible ap- 
pearance of struggling to get free from the cord which con- 
fined it. 

Obed, by the time I had noticed all this, had knelt beside 
the shoulder of the corpse, and I could see by the moonlight 
that flickered across his face as the vessel rolled in the de- 
clining breeze, that he had pushed off his eye the uncouth 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


165 

spyglass which he had fastened over it during the chase, so 
that it now stood out from the middle of his forehead like a 
stunted horn ; but, in truth, “ it was not exalted,” for he ap- 
peared crushed down to the very earth by the sadness of the 
scene before him, and I noticed the frequent sparkle of a 
heavy tear as it fell from his iron visage on the face of the 
dead man. At length he untied the string that fastened the 
eye-glass round his head, and taking a coarse towel from a 
locker, he spunged poor Paul’s face and neck with rum, and 
then fastened up his lower jaw with the lanyard. Having 
performed this melancholy office, the poor fellow’s feelings 
could no longer be restrained by my presence. 

“ God help me, I have not now one friend in the wide 
world. When I had neither home, nor food, nor clothing, he 
sheltered me, and fed me, and clothed me, when a single word 
would have gained him five hundred dollars, and run me up 
to the foreyard-arm in a wreath of white smoke; but he was 
true as steel ; and oh that he was now doing for me what I 
have done for him! who would have moaned over me, — me, 
who am now without wife or child, and have disgraced all my 
kin ! alack-a-day, alack-a-day ! ” — And he sobbed and wept 
aloud, as if his very heart would have burst in twain. — “ But 
I will soon follow you, Paul ; I have had my warning already ; 
I know it, and I believe it.” At this instant the dead hand of 
the mate burst the ligature that kept it down across his body, 
and slowly rose up and remained in a beckoning attitude. I 
was seized with a cold shivering from head to foot, and would 
have shrieked aloud, had it not been for very shame, but Obed 
was unmoved. — “ I know it, Paul. I know it. I am ready, and 
I shall not be long behind you.” 

He fastened the arm down once more, and having called 
a couple of hands to assist him, they lashed up the remains 
of their shipmate in his hammock, with a piece of iron bal- 
last at his feet, ancHhen, without more ado, handed the body 
up through the skylight ; and I heard the heavy splash as they 
cast it into the sea. When this was done, the captain re- 
turned to the cabin, bringing a light with him, filled and 
drank off a glass of strong grog. Yet he did not even now 
deign to notice me, which was by no means soothing; and I 
found, that since he wouldn’t speak, 1 must, at all hazards. 

“ I say, Obed, do you ever read your Bible ? ” He looked 
steadily at me with his lacklustre eyes. 11 Because, if you do, 
you may perhaps have fallen in with some such passages as 
the following : — ‘ Behold I am in your hand ; but know ye for 
certain, that if you put me to death, ye shall surely bring in- 
nocent blood upon yourselves.’ ” 


i66 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ It is true, Mr. Cringle, I feel the truth of it here,” and 
he laid his large bony hand on his heart. Yet I do not ask 
you to forgive me; I don’t expect that you can or will; but 
unless the devil gets possession of me again — which, so sure 
as ever there was a demoniac in this world, he had this after- 
noon when you so tempted me — I hope soon to place you in 
safety, either in a friendly port, or on board of a British ves- 
sel; and then what becomes of me is of little consequence, 
now since the only living soul who cared a dollar for me is 
at rest amongst the coral branches at the bottom of the deep 
green sea.” 

“ Why, man,” rejoined I, “leave off this stuff; something 
has turned your brain, surely; people must die in their beds, 
you know, if they be not shot, or put out of the way somehow 
or other; and as for my small affair, why, I forgive you, man 
— from my heart I forgive you ; were it only for the oddity of 
your scantling, mental and corporeal, I would do so ; and you 
see I am not much hurt, — so lend me a hand, like a good fel- 
low, to wash the wound with a little spirits — it will stop the 
bleeding, and the stiffness will soon go off — so ” 

“ Lieutenant Cringle, I need not tell what I know you have 
found out, that I am not the vulgar Yankee smuggler, fit only 
to be made a butt of by you and your friends, that you no 
doubt at first took me for; but who or what I am, or what I 
may have been, you shall never know — but I will tell you this 
much ” 

“ Devil confound the fellow ! — why this is too much upon 
the brogue, Obed. Will you help me to dress my wound, man, 
and leave off your cursed sentimental speeches, which you 
must have gleaned from some old novel or another ? I’ll hear 
it all by and by.” 

At this period I was a reckless young chap, with strong 
nerves, and my own share of that animal courage, which gen- 
erally oozes out at one’s finger ends when one gets married 
and turned of thirty; nevertheless I did watch with some 
anxiety the effect which my unceremonious interruption was 
to have upon him. I was agreeably surprised to find that he 
took it all in good part, and set himself, with great alacrity, 
and kindness even, to put me to rights, and so successfully, 
that when I was washed and cleansed, and fairly coopered up, 
1 found myself quite able to take my place at the table; and 
having no fear of the College of Surgeons before my eyes, I 
helped myself to a little of the needful, and in the pleni- 
tude of my heart, I asked Obed’s pardon for my ill-bred inter- 
ruption. 

“ It was not quite the thing to cut you short in the middle 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


167 


of your Newgate Calendar, Obed — beg pardon, your story I 
mean; no offence now, none in the world — eh? But where the 
deuce, man, got you this fine linen of Egypt ? ” looking at the 
sleeves of the shirt Obed had obliged me with/ as I sat with- 
out my coat. “ I had not dreamt you had any thing so luxuri- 
ous in your kit.” 

I saw his brow begin to lower again, so the devil prompted 
me to advert, by way of changing the object, to a file of 
newspapers, which, as it turned out, might have proved to 
be by far the most dangerous topic I could have hit upon. He 
had laid them aside, having taken them out of the locker 
when he was rummaging for the linen. “ What have we here ? 
— Kingston Chronicle, Montego Bay Gazette, Falmouth Ad- 
vertiser. A great newsmonger you must be. What arrivals ? — • 
let me see; — you know I am a week from headquarters. Let 
me see.” 

At first he made a motion as if he would have snatched 
them out of my hands, but speedily appeared to give up the 
idea, merely murmuring — “What can it signify now?” 

I continued to read — “ Chanticleer from a cruise — Ton- 
nant from Barbadoes — Pique from Port-au-Prince. Oh, the 
next interests me — the Firebrand is daily expected from 
Havana; she is to come through the gulf, round Cape An- 
tonio, and beat up the haunts of the pirates all along the 
Cuba shore.” I was certain now that at the mention of this 
corvette mine host winced in earnest. This made me anxious 
to probe him farther. “ Why, what means this pencil mark — 
1 Firebrand’s number off the Chesapeake was 1022 ? ’ How the 
deuce, my fine fellow, do you know that ? ” 

He shook his head, but said nothing, and I went on reading 
the pencil memoranda — “ ‘ But this is most probably 
changed; she now carries a red cross in the head of her fore- 
sail, and has very short lower masts, like the Hornet. ’ ” Still 
he made me no answer. I proceeded — “ Stop, let me see what 
merchant ships are about sailing. ‘ Loading for Liverpool, 
the John Gladstone, Peter Pondeorus, master; ” and after it, 
again in pencil — “ 1 Only sugar : goes through the Gulf.’— 
Only sugar,” said I, still fishing; “too bulky, I suppose. — • 
1 Ariel, Jenkins, Whitehaven;’” remark — “ ‘ Sugar, coffee, 
and logwood.’ ‘ Nuestra Senora de los Dolores, to sail for 
Chagres on 7th proximo;”’ remark — “ i Rich cargo of bale 
goods, but no chance of overtaking her .’ — 1 El Rayo to sail 
for St Jago de Cuba on the 10th proximo;’” remark — 
“‘Sails fast; armed with a long gun and musketry; thirty 
hands; about ten Spanish passengers; valuable cargo of dry 
goods; mainmast rakes well aft; — new cloth in the foresail 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


1 68 

about half-way up; will be off the Moro about the 13th/ — 
And what is this written in ink under the above ? — ‘ The San 
Pedro from Chagres, and Marianita from Santa Martha, al- 
though rich, have both got convoy/ — Ah, too strong for your 
friends, Obed — I see, I see. — ‘Francis Baring, Loan French, 
master ’ — an odd name, rather, for a skipper : ” remark — 
“ ‘ Forty seroons of cochineal and some specie; is to sail from 
Morant Bay on 5th proximo, to go through the windward 
passage; may be expected off Cape St Nicolas on the 12th, 
or thereby/ ” I laid down the paper and looked him full in 
the face. “ Nicolas is an ominous name. I fear the good ship 
Francis Baring will find it so. Some of the worthy saint’s 
clerks to be fallen in with off the Mole, eh? Don’t you think 
as I do, Obed ? ” Still silent. “ Why, you seem to take great 
delight in noting the intended departures and expected arri- 
vals, my friend — merely to satisfy your curiosity, of course ; 
but, to come to close quarters with you, captain, I now know 
pretty well the object of your visiting Jamaica now and then, 
— you are indeed no vulgar smuggler /’ 

“ It is well for you and good for myself, Mr. Cringle, that 
something weighs heavy at my heart at this moment, and that 
there is that about you which, notwithstanding your ill-timed 
jesting, commands my respect, and engages my good-will — 
had it not been so, you would have been alongside of poor 
Paul at this moment.” He ‘leant his arms upon the table, and 
gazed intensely on my face as he continued in a solemn trem- 
ulous tone — “ Do you believe in auguries, Mr Cringle ? Do 
you believe that 1 coming events cast their shadows before? ’ ” 
— Oh, that little Wiggy Campbell had been beside me to have 
seen the figure and face of the man who now quoted him ! 

“ Yes, I do; it is part of the creed of every sailor to do so; 
I do believe that people have had forewarnings of peril to 
themselves or their friends.” 

“ Then what do you think of the mate beckoning me with 
his dead hand to follow him ? ” 

“ Why, you are raving, Obed ; you saw that he had been 
much convulsed, and that the limb, from the contraction of 
the sinews, was forcibly kept down in the position it broke 
loose from — the spunyarn gave way, and of course it started 
up — nothing wonderful in all this, although it did at the time 
somewhat startle me, I confess.” 

“ It may be so, it may be so. I don’t know,” rejoined he, 

“ but taken along with what I saw before ” Here his 

voice sank into so hollow and sepulchral a tone as to be al- 
most unintelligible. “ But there is no use in arguing on the 
subject. Answer me this, Lieutenant Cringle, and truly, so 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


169 


help you God at your utmost need, Did the mate leave the 
cabin at any moment after I was wounded by the splinter f ” 
And he seized one of my hands convulsively with his iron 
paw, while he pointed up through the open scuttle towards 
heaven with the other, which trembled like a reed. The 
moon shone strong on the upper part of his countenance, 
while the yellow smoky glare of the candle over which he 
bent, blending harshly and unharmoniously with the pale 
silver light, fell full on his uncouth figure, and on his long 
scraggy bare neck and chin and cheeks, giving altogether a 
most unearthly expression to his savage features, from the 
conflicting tints and changing shadows cast by the flickering 
moonbeams streaming fitfully through the skylight on the 
one hand, as the vessel rolled to and fro, and by the large 
torch-like candle on the other, as it wavered in the night 
wind. The Prince of the Powers of the Air might have sat 
for his picture by proxy. It was just such a face as one has 
dreamed of after a hot supper and cold ale, when the whisky 
had been forgotten — horrible, changing, vague, glimmering, 
and undefined; and as if something was still wanting to 
complete the utter frightfulness of his aspect, the splinter 
wound in his head burst afresh from his violent agitation, 
and streamed down in heavy drops from his forehead, falling 
warm on my hand. I was much shaken at being adjured 
in this tremendous way, with the hot blood gluing our hands 
together, but I returned his grasp as steadily as I could, 
while I replied, with all the composure he had left me, and 
that would not have quite filled a Winchester bushel, — 

“He never left my side from the time he offered to take 
your place after you had been wounded ” 

He fell back against the locker as if he had been shot 
through the heart. His grasp relaxed, he drew his breath 
very hard, and I thought he had fainted. 

“ Then it was not him that stood by me; I thought it 
might have been him, but I was a fool, it was impossible.” 

He made a desperate effort to recover his composure, and 
succeeded. 

“ And pray, Master Obediah,” quoth I, “what did you 
see ? ” 

He answered me sharply — “ Never mind, never mind — 
here, Potomac, lend us a hand to sling a cot for this gentle- 
man ; there now, see the lanyard is sound, and the lacing all 
tight and snug — now put that mattrass into it, and there is 
linen in the chest.” 

In a trice my couch was rigged, all comfortable, snow- 
white linen, nice pillow, soft mattrass, &c., and Obed, filling 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


170 

me another tumbler, helped himself also; he then drank to 
my health, wished me a sound sleep, promised to call me at 
daylight, and as he left the cabin he said, “ Mr Cringle, had 
it been my object to have injured you, I would not have 
waited until now. You are quite safe so far as depends on 
me, so take your rest — good night, once more.” 

I tumbled into bed, and never once opened my eyes until 
Obed called me at daylight, that is, at five in the morning, 
according to his promise. 

By this time we were well in with the Cuba shore; the 
land might be two miles from us, as we could see the white 
surf. Out at sea, although all around was clear as crystal, 
there was nothing to be seen of the Gleam or Firebrand, but 
there were ten or twelve fishing canoes, each manned with 
from four to six hands, close aboard of us; — we seemed to 
have got becalmed in the middle of a small fleet of them. 
The nearest to us hailed in Spanish, in a very friendly 
way. 

“ Como estamos Capitan, que hay de nuevo ; hay algo de 
bueno, para los pobres Pescadores? ” and the fellow who had 
spoken laughed loudly. 

The captain desired him to come on board, and then drew 
him aside, conversing earnestly with him. The Spanish 
fisherman was a very powerful man; he was equipped in a 
blue cotton shirt, Osnaburg trowsers, sandals of untanned 
bullock’s hide, a straw hat, and wore the eternal greasy red 
sash and long knife. He was a bold, daring-looking fellow, 
and frequently looked frowningly on me, and shook his head 
impatiently, while the captain, as it seemed, was explaining 
to him who I was. Just in this nick of time my friend 
Potomac handed up my uniform coat, (I had previously 
been performing my ablutions on deck in my shirt and 
trowsers,) which I put on, swab and all, thinking no harm. 
But there must have been mighty great offence neverthe- 
less, for the fisherman, in a twinkling, casting a fierce look 
at me, jumped overboard like a feather, clearing the rail 
like a flying fish, and swam to his canoe, that had shoved off 
a few paces. 

When he got on board he stood up and shook his clenched 
fist at Obed, shouting, “ Picaro, traidor, Ingleses hay abordo, 
quieres enganarnos ! ” He then held up the blade of his 
paddle, a signal which all the canoes answered in a moment 
in the same manner, and then pulled towards the land, from 
whence a felucca, invisible until that moment, now swept 
out, as if she had floated up to the surface by magic, for I 
could neither see creek nor indentation on the shore, nor the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


171 

smallest symptom of any entrance to a port or cove. For a 
few minutes the canoes clustered round this necromantic 
craft, and I could notice that two or three hands from each 
of them jumped on board; they then paddled oil in a string, 
and vanished one by one amongst the mangrove bushes as 
suddenly as the felucca had appeared. All this puzzled me 
exceedingly — I looked at Obed — he was evidently sorely per- 
plexed. 

“ I had thought to have put you on board a British vessel 
before this, or, failing that, to have run down, and landed 
you at St Jago, Mr Cringle, as I promised; but you see I 
am prevented by these honest men there. Get below, and as 
you value your life, and, I may say, mine, keep your temper, 
and be civil.” 

I did as he suggested, but peeped out of the cabin sky- 
light to see what was going on, notwithstanding. The 
felucca was armed with a heavy carronade on a pivot, and 
as full of men as she could hold, fierce, half -naked, savage- 
looking fellows, — she swept rapidly up to us, and closing on 
our larboard quarter, threw about five-and-twenty of her 
genteel young people on board, who immediately secured the 
crew, and seized ObecL However, they, that is, the common 
sailors, seemed to have no great stomach for the job, and 
had it not been for the fellow I had frightened overboard, I 
don’t think one of them would have touched him. Obed 
bore all this with great equanimity. 

“ Why, Francisco,” he said, to this personage, in good 
Spanish, “why, what madness is this? your suspicions are 
groundless; it is as I tell you, he is my prisoner, and what- 
ever he may have been to me, he can be no spy on you.” 

“ Cuchillo entonces,” was the savage reply. 

“No, no,” persisted Obediah, “get cool, man, get cool; I 
am pledged that no harm shall come to him; and farther, I 
have promised to put him ashore at St Jago, and I will be 
as good as my word.” 

“ You can’t if you would,” rejoined Francisco; “the Snake 
is at anchor under the Moro.” 

“ Then he must go with us.” 

“ We shall see as to that,” said the other ; then raising his 
voice, he shouted to his ragamuffins, “ Comrades, we are be- 
trayed; there is an English officer bn board, who can be 
nothing but a spy ; follow me ! ” 

And he dashed down the companion ladder, knife in hand, 
while I sprung through the small scuttle, like a rat out of 
one hole when a ferret is put in at the other, and crept as 
close to Obed as I could. Francisco, when he missed me. 


172 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


came on deck again. The captain had now seized a cutlass 
in one hand, and held a cocked pistol in the other. It ap- 
peared he had greater control, the nature of which I now 
began to comprehend, over the felucca’s people than Fran- 
cisco bargained for, at the moment the latter went below, 
they released him, and went forward in a body. My perse- 
cutor again advanced close up to me, seized me by the collar 
with one hand, and tried to drag me forward, brandishing 
his naked knife aloft in the other. 

Obed stuck his pistol in his belt, and promptly caught his 
sword-arm — “ Francisco,” he exclaimed, still in Spanish, 
“ fool, madman, let go your hold ! let go, or by the heaven 
above us, and the hell we are both hastening to, I will strike 
you dead ! ” 

The man paused, and looked round to his own people, and 
seeing one or two encouraging glances and gestures amongst 
them, he again attempted to drag me away from my hold on 
the tafferel. Something flashed in the sun, and the man fell ! 
His left arm, the hand of which still clutched my throat, 
while mine grasped its wrist, had been shred from his body 
by Obed’s cutlass, like a twig; and, O God, my blood 
curdles to my heart even now when I think of it! the dead 
fingers kept the grasp sufficiently long to allow the arm to 
fall heavily against my side, where it hung for a second, 
until the muscles relaxed, and it dropped on the deck. The 
instant that Obed struck the blow, he caught hold of my 
hand, threw away his cutlass, and advanced towards the 
group of the felucca’s men, pistol in hand. 

“ Am I not your captain, ye cowards— have I ever deceived 
you yet — have I ever flinched from heading you where the 
danger was greatest — have you not all that I am worth in 
your hands, and will you murder me now ? ” 

“ Viva, el noble capitan, viva! ” 

And the tide turned as rapidly in our favour as it had 
lately ebbed against us. 

“ As for that scoundrel, he has got no more than he de- 
serves,” said he, turning to where Francisco lay, bleeding 
like a carcass in the shambles ; “ but tie up his arm, some of 
ye ; I would be sorry he bled to death.” 

It was unavailing, the large arteries had emptied his 
whole life-blood — he had already gone to his account. 

This most miserable transaction, with all its concomitant 
horrors, to my astonishment, did not seem to make much 
impression on Obed, who now, turning to me, said, with 
perfect composure, — 

“ You have there another melancholy voucher for my 



HE AGAIN ATTEMPTED TO DRAG ME FROM THE TAFFEREL, 





































































































. 




































TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


173 

sincerity,” pointing to the body ; “ but time presses, and you 
must now submit to be blindfolded, and that without farther 
explanation at present.” 

1 did so with the best grace I could, and was led below, 
where two beauties, with loaded pistols, and a drawn knife 
each, obliged rne with their society, one seated on each side 
of me on the small locker, like two deputy butchers ready 
to operate on an unfortunate veal. It had now fallen dead 
calm, and from what I heard, I conjectured that the felucca 
was sweeping in towards the land with us in tow, for the 
sound of the surf grew louder and louder. By and by we 
seemed to slide beyond the long smooth swell into broken 
water, for the little vessel pitched sharp and suddenly, and 
again all was still, and we seemed to have sailed into some 
land-locked cove. From the loud echo of the voices on deck, 
I judged that we were in a narrow canal, the banks of which 
were reflecting the sound; presently this ceased, and al- 
though we skimmed along as motionless as before, I no 
longer heard the splash of the felucca’s sweeps; the roar of 
the sea gradually died away, until it sounded like distant 
thunder, and I thought we touched the ground now and 
then, although slightly. All at once the Spanish part of 
the crew, for we still had a number of the felucca’s people 
with us, sang out “ Palanka,” and we began to pole along 
a narrow marshy lagoon, coming so near the shore occa- 
sionally, that our sides were brushed by the branches of 
the mangrove bushes. Again the channel seemed to widen, 
and I could hear the felucca once more ply her sweeps. 
In about ten minutes after this the anchor was let go, and 
for a quarter of an hour, nothing was heard on deck but 
the bustle of the people furling sails, coiling down the ropes, 
and getting everything in order, as is usual in coming into 
port. It was evident that several boats had boarded us soon 
after we anchored, as I could make out part of the greetings 
between the strangers and Obed, in which my own name 
recurred more than once. In a little while all was still 
again, and Obed called down the companion to my guards, 
that I might come on deck, — a boon I was not long in avail- 
ing myself of. 

We were anchored nearly in the centre of a shallow 
swampy lagoon, about a mile across, as near as I could 
judge; two very large schooners, heavily armed, were moored 
ahead of us, one on each bow, and another rather smaller 
lay close under our stern; they all had sails bent, and every 
thing apparently in high order, and were full of men. The 
shore, to the distance of a bow-shot from the water all 


174 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


around us, was low, marshy, and covered with an im- 
pervious jungle of thick strong reeds and wild canes, with 
here and there a thicket of mangroves; a little farther off, 
the land swelled into lofty hills, covered to the very summit 
with heavy timber, but every thing had a moist, green, 
steamy appearance, as if it had been the region of perpetual 
rain. “ Lots of yellow fever here,” thought I, as the heavy 
rank smell of decayed vegetable matter came off on the faint 
sickly breeze, and the sluggish fog banks crept along the 
dull clay-coloured motionless surface of the tepid water. 
The sea view was quite shut out — I looked all round and could 
discern no vestige of the entrance. Right a-head there was 
about a furlong of land cleared at the only spot which one 
could call a beach,- — that is, a hard shore of sand and peb- 
bles. Had you tried to get ashore at any other point, your 
fate would have been that of the Master of Ravenswood; as 
fatal, that is, without the gentility; for you would have 
been suffocated in black mud, in place of clean sea-sand. 
There was a long shed in the centre of this cleared spot, 
covered in with boards, and thatched with palm leaves; it 
was open below, a sort of capstan-house, where a vast quan- 
tity of sails, anchors, cordage, and most kinds of sea-stores, 
were stowed, carefully covered over with tarpauling. Over- 
head there was a flooring laid along the couples of the roof, 
the whole length of the shed, forming a loft of nearly sixty 
feet long, divided by bulkheads into a variety of apartments, 
lit by small rude windows in the thatch, where the crews of 
the vessels, I concluded, were occasionally lodged during 
the time they might be under repair. The boat was manned, 
and Obed took me ashore with him. 

We landed near the shed I have described, beneath which 
we encountered about forty of the most uncouth and fero- 
cious-looking rascals that my eyes had ever been blessed 
withal; they were of every shade, from the woolly Negro 
and long-haired Indian, to the sallow American and fair 
Biscayan; and as they intermitted their various occupations 
of mending sails, fitting and stretching rigging, splicing 
ropes, making spun-yarn, coopering gun-carriages, grinding 
pikes and cutlasses, and filling cartridges, to look at me, they 
grinned and nodded to each other, and made sundry signs 
and gestures which made me regret many a past peccadillo 
that in more prosperous times I little thought on or repented 
of, and I internally prayed that I might be prepared to die 
as became a man, for my fate appeared to be sealed. The 
only ray of hope that shot into my mind, through all this 
gloom, came from the respect the thieves, one and all, paid 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


175 


the captain; and, as I had reaped the benefit of assuming 
an outward recklessness and daring, which I really did not 
at heart possess, I screwed myself up to maintain the same 
port still, and swaggered along, jabbering in my broken 
Spanish, right and left, and jesting even with the most 
infamous-looking scoundrels of the whole lot, while, God 
he knows, my heart was palpitating like a girl’s when she 
is asked to be married. Obed led the way up a ladder into 
the loft, where we found several messes at dinner; and, 
passing through various rooms, in which a number of ham- 
mocks were slung, we at length arrived at the eastern end, 
which was boarded off into an apartment eighteen or twenty 
feet square, lighted by a small port-hole in the end, about 
ten feet from the ground. I could see several huts from 
this window, built just on the edge of the high wood, where 
some of the country people seemed to be moving about, and 
round which a large flock of pigs and from twenty to thirty 
bullocks were grazing. All beyond, as far as the eye could 
reach, was one continuous forest, without any vestige of a 
living thing; not even a thin wreath of blue smoke evinced 
the presence of a fellow-creature; I seemed to be hopelessly 
cut off from all succour, and my heart again died within 
me. 

“ I am sorry to say you must consider yourself a prisoner 
here for a few days,” said Obed. 

I could only groan. 

“ But the moment the coast is clear, I will be as good as 
my word, and land you at St Jago.” 

I groaned again. The man was moved. 

“ I would I could do so sooner,” he continued ; “ but you 
see by how precarious a tenure I hold my control over these 
people; therefore I must be cautious, for your sake as well 
as my own, or they would make little of murdering both 
of us, especially as the fellow who would have cut your throat 
this morning has many friends amongst them; above all, I 
dare not leave them for any purpose for some days. I must 
recover my seat, in which, by the necessary severity you 
witnessed, I have been somewhat shaken. So good-by; there 
is cold meat in that locker, and some claret to wash it 
down with. Don’t, I again warn you, venture out during 
the afternoon or night. I will be with you betimes in the 
morning. So good-by so long. Your cot, you see, is ready 
slung.” 

He turned to depart, when, as if recollecting himself, he 
stooped down, and taking hold of a ring, he lifted up a trap- 


176 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

door, from which there was a ladder leading down to the 
capstan-house. 

“ I had forgotten this entrance ; it will be more convenient 
for me in my visits.” 

In my heart I believe he intended this as a hint that I 
should escape through the hole at some quiet opportunity; 
and he was descending the ladder, when he stopped and 
looked around, greatly mortified, as it struck me. 

“ I forgot to mention that a sentry has been placed, I don’t 
know by whose orders, at the foot of the ladder, to whom I 
must give orders to fire at you, if you venture to descend. 
You see how the land lies; I can’t help it.” 

This was spoken in a low tone, then aloud — “ There are 
books on that shelf behind the canvass screen; if you can 
settle to them, they may amuse you.” 

He left me, and I sat down disconsolate enough. I found 
some Spanish books, and a volume of Lord Byron’s poetry, 
containing the first canto of Childe Harold, two numbers 
of Blackwood, and several other English books and maga- 
zines, the names of the owners on all of them being carefully 
erased. 

But there was nothing else that indicated the marauding 
life of friend Obediah, whose apartment I conjectured was 
now my prison, if I except a pretty extensive assortment of 
arms, pistols, and cutlasses, and a range of massive cases, 
with iron clamps, which were ranged along one side of the 
room. I paid my respects to the provender and claret; the 
hashed chicken was particularly good; bones rather large or 
so, but flesh white and delicate. Had I known that I was 
dining upon a guana, or large wood lizard, I scarcely think 
1 would have made so hearty a meal. Long cork, Ho. 2, 
followed ditto, No. 1 ; and as the shades of evening, as poets 
say, began to fall by the time I had finished it, I toppled 
quietly into my cot, said my prayers, such as they were, and 
fell asleep. 

It must have been towards morning, from the damp fresh- 
ness of the air that came through the open window, when I 
was aroused by the howling of a dog, a sound which always 
moves me. I shook myself, but before I was thoroughly 
awake, it ceased; it appeared to have been close under my 
window. 

I was turning to go to sleep again, when a female, in a 
small suppressed voice, sung the following snatch of a vulgar 
Port Royal ditty, which I scarcely forgive myself for intro- 
ducing here to polite society: — 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


177 


“ Young hofficer come home at night. 

Him gave me ring and kisses ; 

Nine months, one picaniny white. 

Him white almost like missis. 

But missis fum * my back wid switch. 

Him say de shild for massa ; 

But massa say him ” 

The singer broke off suddenly, as if disturbed by the ap- 
proach of some one. 

“ Hush, hush, you old foolish ” said a man’s voice, in 

the same low whispering tone; “you will waken de dronken 
sentry dere, when we shall all be put in iron. Hush, he will 
know my voice more better.” 

It was now clear that some one wished to attract my at- 
tention ; besides, I had a dreamy recollection of having heard 
both the male and female voices before. I listened, there- 
fore, all alive. The man began to sing in the same low 
tone : — 

“ Newfoundland dog love him master de morest 
Of all de dog ever I see ; 

Let him starve him, and kick him, and cuff him de sorest. 
Difference none never makee to he.” 

There was a pause for a minute or two. 

u It no use,” the same voice continued ; “ him either no 
dere, or he won’t hear us.” 

“ Stop,” said the female, “ stop ; woman head good for 
someting. I know who he shall hear.— Here, good dog, sing 
psalm; good dog, sing psalm,” and. thereupon a long loud 
melancholy howl rose wailing through the night air. 

“ If that be not my dear old dog Sneezer, it is a deuced 
good imitation of him,” thought I. 

The woman again spoke — “ Youl leetle piece more, good 
dog,” and the howl was repeated. 

I was now certain. By this time I had risen and stood at 
the open window; but it was too dark to see any thing dis- 
tinctly below. I could barely distinguish two dark figures, 
and what I concluded was the dog sitting on end between 
them. 

“ Who are you ? what do you want with me l 

“ Speak softly, massa, speak softly, or de sentry may hear 
us, for all de rum I give him.” 

Here the dog recognized me, and nearly spoiled sport alto- 
gether; indeed it might have cost us our lives, for he began 
to bark and frisk about, and to leap violently against the 
* Fum— Flog. 


i;8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


end of the capstan-house, in vain endeavours to reach the 
window. 

“ Down, Sneezer, down, sir ; you used to be a dog of some 
sense; down.” 

But Sneezer’s joy had capsized his discretion, and the 
sound of my voice pronouncing his name drove him mad 
altogether, and he bounded against the end of the shed, like 
a battering-ram. 

“ Stop, man, stop,” and I held down the bight of my 
neckcloth, with an end in each hand. He retired, took a 
noble run, and in a trice hooked his forepaws in the hand- 
kerchief, and I hauled him in at the window. “ Now, 
Sneezer, down with you, sir, down with you, or your ram- 
paging will get all our throats cut.” He cowered at my 
feet, and was still as a lamb from that moment. I stepped 
to the window. “ Now, who are you, and what do you want ? ” 
said I. 

“ Ah, massa, you no know me ? ” 

“ How the devil should I ? Don’t you see it is as dark as 
pitch ? ” 

“Well, massa, I will tell you; it is me, massa.” 

“ I make no great doubt of that ; but who may you be ? ” 

“Lord, you are de foolis person now; make me talk to 
him,” said the female. “ Massa, never mind he, dat stupid 
fellow is my husband, and surely massa know me ? ” 

“ Now, my very worthy friends, I think you want to make 
yourselves known to me; and if so, pray have the goodness 
to tell me your names, that is, if I can in any way serve 
you.” 

“ To be sure you can, massa; for dat purpose I come here.” 

The woman hooked the word out of his mouth. “ Yes, 
massa, you must know me is Nancy, and dat old stupid is 
my husband, Peter Mangrove, him who ” 

Here Peter chimed in — “Yes, massa, Peter Mangrove is 

de person you have de honour to address, and ” here he 

lowered his voice still more, although the whole dialogue 
from the commencement had been conducted in no higher 
tone than a loud whisper — “we have secured one big large 
canoe, near de mout of dis dam hole, which, wid your help, 
I tink we shall be able to launch troo de surf; and once in 
smoot water, den no fear but we shall run down de coast 
safely before de wind till we reach St Jago.” 

My heart jumped against my ribs. Here’s an unexpected 
chance, thought I. “ But, Peter, how, in the name of mum- 
bo jumbo, came you here f" 

“Why, massa, you do forget a leetle, dat I am a Creole 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


179 


negro, and not a naked tatooed African, whose exploits, dat 
is de wonderful ting him never do in him’s own country, him 
get embroidered and pinked in gunpowder on him breach; 
beside, I am a Christian gentleman like youshef; so d — n 
mumbo jumbo, Massa Cringle.” 

I saw where I had erred. “ So say I, Peter, d — n mumbo 
jumbo particularly; but how came you here, man? tell me 
that.” 

“Why, massa, I was out in de pilot-boat schooner, wid 
my wife here, and five more hands, waiting for de outward 
bound, tinking no harm, when dem piratical rascal catch we, 
and carry us off. Yankee privateer bad enough; but who 
ever hear of pilot being carry off? — blasphemy dat — carry 
off pilot! Who ever dream of such a ting? every shivilized 
peoples respect pilot! — oh Lord” — and he groaned in spirit 
for several seconds. 

“ And the dog ? ” inquired I. 

“Oh, massa, I could not leave him at home; and since you 
was good enough to board him wid us, he has messed wid 
us, ay and slept wid us; and when we started last, although 
he shewed some dislike at going on board, I had only to say, 
Sneezer, we go look for you massa; and he make such a 
bound, dat he capsize my old woman dere, heel over head; 
oh dear, what display, Nancy, you was exhibit! ” 

“ Hold your tongue, Peter ; you hab no decency, you old 
willain.” 

“Well, but, Peter, speak out; when are we to make the 
attempt ? where are the rest of your crew ? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! oh dear ! dat is de worstest ; oh dear ! ” and he 
began to cry and sob like the veriest child. “Oh massa,” — 
after he had somewhat recovered himself ; — “ Oh, massa, 
dese people debils. Why, de make all de oder on board walk 
de plank, wid two ten-pound shot, one at each foot. Oh, if 
you had seen de clear shining blue skin, as de became leetle 
and leetle, and more leetler, down far in de clear green sea ! 
Oh dear! oh dear! Only to tink dat each wavering black 
spot was fellow-creature like one-shef, wid de heart’s blood 
warm in his bosom at de very instant of time we lost sight 
of him forever ! ” 

“God bless me,” said I; “and how did you escape, and 
the black dog, and the black— ahem— beg pardon— your wife 
I mean ; how were you spared ? ” 

“ Ah, massa ! I can’t say ; but bad as de were, de seemed 
to have a liking for brute beasts, so dem save Sneezer, and 
my wife, and myshef; we were de only quadrupeds saved out 
of de whole crew — Oh dear ! Oh dear ! ” 


i8o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Well, well; I know enough now. I will spare you the pain 
of any farther recital, Peter; so tell me what I am to do.” 

. “ Stop, massa, till I see if de sentry be still sound. I know 
de fellow, he was one on dem ; let me see” — and I heard him 
through the loose flooring boards walk to the foot of the trap 
ladder leading up to my berth. The soliloquy that followed 
was very curious of its kind. The negro had excited himself 
by a recapitulation of the cruelties exercised on his unfortu- 
nate shipmates, and the unwarrantable caption of himself 
and rib, — a deed that in the nautical calendar would rank 
in atrocity with the murder of a herald or the bearer of a 
flag of truce. He kept murmuring to himself, as he groped 
about in the dark for the sentry — “ Catch pilot ! who ever 
hear of such a ting? I suppose dem would have pull down 
light-house, if dere had been any for pull. — Where is dis 
sentry rascal ? — him surely no sober yet ? ” 

The sentry had fallen asleep as he leant back on the ladder, 
and had gradually slid down into a sitting position, with his 
head leaning against one of the steps, as he reclined with his 
back towards it, thus exposing his throat and neck to the 
groping paw of the black pilot. 

“Ah — here him is, snoring heavy as my Nancy — well, 
dronk still; no fear of him overhearing we — nice position 
him lie in — quite convenient — could cut his troat now — 
slice him like a pumpkin — de debil is surely busy wid me, 
Peter. I find de w r ery clasp-knife in my starboard pocket 
beginning to open of himshef.” 

I tapped on the floor with my foot. 

“Ah, tank you, Massa Tom — de debil nearly get we all 
in a scrape just now. However, I see him is quite sound — 
de sentry dat is, for de oder never sleep, you know.” He 
had again come under the window. “ Now, lieutenant, in 
two word, to-morrow night at two bells, in de middle watch, 
I will be here, and we shall make a start of it; will you 
venture, sir ? ” 

“Will I? — to be sure I will; but why not now, Peter? 
why not now ? ” 

“Ah, massa, you no smell de daylight; near daybreak al- 
ready, sir. Can’t make try dis night, but to-morrow night I 
shall be here punctual.” 

“Very well, but the dog, man? If he be found in my 
quarters, we shall be blown, and I scarcely think he will 
leave me.” 

“ Garamighty ! true enough, massa ! what is to be done ? 
De people know de dog was catch wid me, and if he be found 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 181 

wid you , den de will sospect we communication togidder. 
What is to be done ? ” 

I was myself not a little perplexed, when Nancy whis- 
pered, “ De dog have more sense den many Christian person. 
Tell him he must go wid us dis one night, no tell him dis 
night, else him won’t ; say dis one night, and dat if him don’t, 
we shall all be deaded; try him, massa.” 

I had benefited by more extraordinary hints before now, 
although, well as I knew the sagacity of the poor brute, I 
could not venture to hope it would come up to the expecta- 
tions of Mrs Mangrove. But I’ll try. — “ Here, Sneezer, here, 
my boy; you must go home with Peter to-night, or we shall 
all get into a deuced mess ; so here, my boy, here is the bight 
of the handkerchief again, and through the window you must 
go; come. Sneezer, come.” 

To my great joy and surprise, the poor dumb beast rose 
from where he had coiled himself at my feet, and after hav- 
ing actually embraced me, by putting his fore paws on my 
shoulders, as he stood on his hind legs, and licked my face 
from ear to ear, uttering a low, fondling, nuzzling sort of 
whine, like a nurse caressing a child, he at once leapt on the 
window sill, put his forepaws through the handkerchief, and 
was dropped to the ground again. I could immediately per- 
ceive the two dark figures of the pilot and his wife, followed 
by the dog, glide away as noiselessly as if they had been 
spirits of the night, until they were lost under the shade of 
the thick jungle. 

I turned in, and — what will not youth and fatigue do? — 
I fell once more fast asleep, and never opened my eyes 
until Obed shook me out of my cot about eight o’clock in the 
morning. 

“ Good morning, lieutenant. I have sent up your break- 
fast, but you don’t seem inclined to eat it.” 

“ Don’t you believe it, my dear Obed. I have been sound 
asleep to this moment; only stop till I have slipped on my — 
those shoes, if you please — thank you — waistcoat — that will 
do. Now — coffee, fish, yams, and plaintains, and biscuit, 
white as snow, and short as — and eggs — and — zounds! claret 
to finish with? — Why, Obed, you surely don’t desire that 
I should enjoy all these delicacies in solitary blessedness? ” 

“ Why, I intend to breakfast with you, if my society be 
not disagreeable.” 

“ Disagreeable! Not in the least, quite the contrary. That 
black grouper looks remarkably beautiful. Another piece of 
yam, if you please. — Shall I fill you a cup of coffee, Obed? 
Por my own part, I always stow the ground tier of my cargo 


182 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


dry, and then take a top-dressing. Write this down as an 
approved axiom with all thorough breakfast-eaters. Why, 
man, you are off your feed; what are you turning up your 
ear for, in that incomprehensible fashion, like a duck in 
thunder? A little of the claret — thank you. The very best 
butter I have ever eaten out of Ireland — now, some of that 
avocado pear — and as for biscuit, Leman never came up to 
it. I say, man, — hillo, where are you? — rouse ye out of your 
brown study, man.” 

“ Did you hear that, Mr Cringle ? ” 

“Hear what? — I heard nothing,” rejoined I; “but hand 
me over that land-crab. — Thank you, and you may send the 
spawl of that creeping thing along with it; that guana. I 
had a dislike to eating a lizard at first, but I have got over 
it somehow; — and a thin slice of ham, a small taste of the 
unclean beast, Obed — peach-fed, I’ll warrant.” 

There was a pause. The report of a great gun came boom- 
ing along, reverberated from side to side of the lagoon, the 
echoes growing shorter and shorter, and weaker and weaker, 
until they growled themselves asleep in a hollow rumble like 
distant thunder. 

“ Ha, ha ! Dick Casket for a thousand ! Old Blowhard 
has stuck in your skirts, Master Obed — but, Lord help me, 
man! let us finish our breakfast; he won’t be here this half 
hour.” 

I expected to see mine host’s forehead lowering like a 
thunder cloud from my ill-timed funning; but to my sur- 
prise, his countenance exhibited more amenity than I 
thought had been in the nature of the beast, as he replied, — 

“Why, lieutenant, the felucca put to sea last night, to 
keep a bright look-out at the mouth of our cove here. I sup- 
pose that is him overhauling some vessel.” 

“It may be so; — hush! there’s another gun — Two!” 

Obed changed countenance at the double report. 

“ I say, Obed, the felucca did not carry more than one 
gun when I saw her, and she has had no time to load and 
fire again.” 

He did not answer a word, but continued, with a piece of 
guana on the end of his fork in one hand and a cup of coffee 
in the other, as if he had been touched by the wand of a 
magician. Presently we heard one or two dropping shots, 
quickly thickening into a rattle of musketry. He threw 
down his food, picked up his hat, and trundled down stairs, 
as if the devil had kicked him. “ Pedro, que hay ? ” I could 
hear him say to some one below, who appeared to have ar- 
rived in great haste, for he gasped for breath — 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 183 

“Aqui viene la felucha,” answered Pedro; “perseguido 
por dos lanchas canoneras llenas de gente.” 

“Abordo entonces, abordo todo el mundo; arma, arma, 
aqui vienen los Engleses ; arma, arma ! ” 

And all from that instant was a regular hillabaloo. The 
drums on board the schooners beat to quarters, a great bell, 
formerly the ornament of some goodly ship, no doubt, which 
had been slung in the fork of a tree, clanged away at a 
furious rate, the crews were hurrying to and fro, shouting 
to each other in Creole Spanish, and Yankee English, while 
every cannon-shot from the felucca or the boat guns came 
louder and louder, and' the small arms peppered away 
sharper and sharper. The shouts of the men engaged, both 
friends and foes, were now heard, and I could hear Obed’s 
voice on board the largest schooner, which lay full in view 
from my window, giving orders, not only to his own crew, 
but to those of the others. I heard him distinctly sing out, 
after ordering them to haul upon the spring on his cable, 
“ Now, men, I need not tell you to fight bravely, for if you 
are taken every devil of you will be hanged, so hoist away 
the signal,” and a small black ball flew up through the rig- 
ging, until it reached the maintopgallant-masthead of the 
schooner, where it hung a moment, and in the next blew out 
in a large black swallow-tailed flag, like a commodore’s broad 
pennant. 

“Now,” shrieked he, “let me see who dares give in with 
this voucher for his honesty flying aloft ! ” 

I twisted and craned myself out of the window, to get a 
view of what was going on elsewhere; however, I could see 
nothing but Obed’s large schooner from it, all the other craft 
were out of the range of my eye, being hid by the projecting 
roof of the shed. The noise continued — the shouting rose 
higher than ever — the other schooners opened their fire, both 
cannon and musketry; and from the increasing vehemence 
of the Spanish exclamations, and the cheering on board 
Obed’s vessels, I concluded the attacking party were having 
the worst of it. My dog Sneezer now came jumping and 
scrambling up the trap-stair, his paws slipping between the 
bars at every step, his mouth wide open, and his tongue 
hanging out, while he barked, and yelled, and gasped to get 
at me, as if his life depended on it. After him I could see 
the round woolly pate of Peter Mangrove, Esquire, as ex- 
cited apparently as the dog, and as anxious to get up; but 
they got jammed together in the small hatch, and stuck 
there, man and beast. At length Peter spoke — 


184 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Now, sir, now! Nancy lias run on before to de beach 
wid two paddles; now for it, now for it.” 

Down trundled master, and dog, and pilot. By this time 
there was no one in the lower part of the shed, which was 
full of smoke, while the infernal tumult on the water still 
raged as furiously as ever, the shot of all sorts and sizes 
hissing, and splashing, and ricochetting along the smooth 
surface of the harbour, as if there had been a sleet of musket 
and cannon-balls and grape. Peter struck out at the top of 
his speed, Sneezer and I followed; we soon reached the 
jungle, dashed through a path that had been recently cleared 
with a cutlass or bill-hook, for the twigs were freshly shred, 
and in about ten minutes reached the high wood. However, 
no rest for the wicked, although the row seemed lessening 
now. 

“ Some one has got the worst of it,” said I. 

“ Never mind, massa,” quoth Peter, “ or we shan’t get de 
betterest ourshef.” 

And away we galloped again, until I had scarcely a rag an 
inch square on my back, or any where else, and my skin was 
torn in pieces by the prickly bushes and spear grass. The 
sound of firing now ceased entirely, although there was still 
loud shouting now and then. 

“ Push on, massa — dem will soon miss we.” 

“True enough, Peter — but what is that?” as. we came to 
a bundle of clouts walloping about in the morass. 

“ De debil it must be, I tink,” said the pilot. “ No, my 
Nancy it is, sticking in the mud up to her waist; what shall 
us do ? you tink, massa, we hab time for can stop to pick she 
out?” 

“ Heaven have mercy, Peter — yes, unquestionably.” 

“ Well, massa, you know best.” 

So we tugged at the sable heroine, and first one leg came 
home out of the tenacious clay, with a plop , then the other 
was drawn out of the quagmire. We then relieved her of the 
paddles, and each taking hold of one of the poor half -dead 
creature’s hands, we succeeded in getting down to the beach, 
about half a mile to leeward of the entrance to the cove. We 
found the canoe there, plumped Nancy stern foremost into 
the bottom of it for ballast, gathered all our remaining en- 
ergies for a grand shove, and ran her like lightning into the 
surf, till the water flashed over and over us, reaching to our 
necks. Next moment we were both swimming, and the 
ergies for a grand shove, and ran her like lightning into the 
ing on the swell. We scrambled on board, set Nancy to bale 
with Peter’s hat, seized our paddles, and skulled away like 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


185 


fury for ten minutes right out to sea, without looking once 
about us, until a musket-shot whistled over our heads, then 
another, and a third; and I had just time to hold up a white 
handkerchief, to prevent a whole platoon being let drive at 
us from the deck of his Britannic Majesty’s schooner Gleam, 
lying-to about a cable’s length to windward of us, with the 
1 'irebrand a mile astern of her out at sea. In five minutes 
we got on board of the former. 

“ Mercy on me, Tom Cringle, and is this the way we are 
to meet again ? ” said old Dick Gasket, as he held out his 
large, bony, sunburnt hand to me. “ You have led me a nice 
dance, in a vain attempt to redeem you from bondage, Tom; 
but I am delighted to see you, although I have not had the 
credit of being your deliverer — very glad to see you, Tom; 
but come along, man, come down with me, and let me rig 
you, not quite a Stultze’s fit, you know, but a jury rig you 
shall have, as good as Dick Gasket’s kit can furnish forth, 
for really you are in a miserable plight, man.” 

“ Bad enough, Indeed, Mr Gasket — many thanks though — 
bad enough, as you say; but I would that your boat’s crew 
were in so good a plight.” 

Mr Gasket looked earnestly at me— “ Why, I have my own 
misgivings. Cringle; this morning at daybreak, the Fire- 
brand in company, we fell in with an armed felucca. It was 
dead calm, and she was out of gun-shot, close in with the 
land. The Firebrand immediately sent the cutter on board, 
fully armed, with instructions to me to man the launch, and 
arm her with the boat-gun, and then to send both boats to 
overhaul the felucca. I did so, standing in as quickly as the 
light air would take me, to support them; the felucca all 
this while sweeping in shore as fast as she could pull. But 
the boats were too nimble for her, and our launch had al- 
ready saluted her twice from the six-pounder in the bow, 
when the sea-breeze came thundering down in a white squall, 
that reefed our gaff-topsail in a trice, and blew away a whole 
lot of light sails, like so many paper-kites. When it cleared 
away, the devil a felucca, boat, or any thing else, was to be 
seen. Capsized they could not have been, for all three were 
not likely to have gone that way; and as to any creek they 
could have run into, why we could see none- That they had 
pulled in shore, however, was our conclusion; but here have 
we been, the whole morning, firing signal guns every five 
minutes without success.” 

“ Did you hear no firing after the squall ? ” said I. 

“Why, some of my people thought they did, but it was 
that hollow, tremulous, reverberating kind of sound, that it 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


1 86 

might have been thunder; and the breeze blew too strong 
to have allowed us to hear musketry a mile and a half to 
windward. I did think I saw some smoke rise, and blow off 
now and then, but ” 

“ But me no buts. Master Richard Gasket ; Peter Man- 
grove here, as well as myself, saw your people pursue the 
felucca into the lion’s den, and I fear they have been crushed 
in his jaws.” I briefly related what we had seen — Gasket 
was in great distress. 

“ They must have been taken, Cringle. The fools ! to allow 
themselves to be trepanned in this way. We must stand out 
and speak the corvette. — All hands make sail ! ” 

I could not help smiling at the grandeur of Dick’s em- 
phasis on the all, when twenty hands, one-third of them boys, 
and the rest landsmen, scrambled up from below, and began 
to pull and haul in no very seaman-like fashion. He 
noticed it. 

“ Ah, Tom, I know what you are grinning at, but I fear 
it has been no laughing matter to my poor boats’ crew — all 
my best hands gone, God help me ! ” 

Presently being under the Firebrand’s lee quarter, we low- 
ered down the boat and went on board, where, for the first 
time, the extreme ludicrousness of my appearance and fol- 
lowing flashed on me. There we were all in a bunch, the dog, 
Mr and Mrs Mangrove, and Thomas Cringle, gent., such in 
appearance as I shall shortly describe them. 

Old Richard Gasket, Esq., first clambered up the side and 
made his bow to the Hon. Captain Transom, who was stand- 
ing near the gangway, on the snow-white deck, amidst a 
group of officers, where every thing was in the most apple- 
pie order, himself, both in mind and apparel, the most 
polished concern in the ship; while the whole crew, with the 
exception of the unfortunate absentees in the cutter, were 
scrambling to get a good view of us. 

I have already said, that my uniform was torn to pieces; 
trowsers ditto; my shoes had parted company in the quag- 
mire; and as for hat, it was left in my cot. I had a dirty 
bandage tied round my neck, performing the two-fold office 
of a cravat and a dressing to my wound; while the blood 
from the scratches had dried into black streaks adown and 
across my face and paws, and I was altogether so begrimed 
with mud that my mother would not have known me. Dick 
made his salaam, and then took up a position beside the 
sally-port, with an important face, like a showman exhibit- 
ing wild beastesses, a regular “ stir-him-up-with-a-long-pole” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


187 


sort of look. I followed him — “ This is Lieutenant Cringle. 
Captain Transom.” ’ 

“The devil it is!” said Transom, trying in vain to keep 
his gravity. “ Why, I see it is— How do you do, Mr Cringle? 
glad to see you.” 

“ This is Peter Mangrove, branch-pilot,” continued Gasket, 
as Peter, bowing, tried to slide past out of sight. 

Till this instant X had not time to look at him — he was 
even a much queerer-looking figure than myself. He had 
been encumbered with no garment besides his trowsers when 
we started, and these had been reduced, in the scramble 
through the brake, to a waistband and two kneebands, from 
which a few shreds fluttered in the breeze, the rest of his 
canvass having been entirely torn out of the bolt-ropes. For 
an upper dress he had borrowed a waistcoat without sleeves 
from the purser of the schooner, which hung loose and un- 
buttoned before, while behind, being somewhat of the 
shortest, some very prominent parts of his stern frame were 
disclosed, as even an apology for a shirt he had none. Being 
a decent man, however, he had tied his large straw hat round 
his waist, by strings fastened to the broad brims, which 
nearly met behind, so that the crown covered his loins before, 
like a petard, while the sameness of his black naked body 
was relieved by being laced with blood from numberless 
lacerations. 

Next came the female — “ This is the pilot’s wife, Captain 
Transom,” again sung out old Dick; but decency won’t let 
me venture on a description of poor Nancy’s equipment, be- 
yond mentioning, that one of the Gleam’s crew had given 
her a pair of old trowsers, which, as a sailor has no bottom, 
and Nancy was not a sailor, were most ludicrously scanty at 
top, and devil another rag of any kind had the poor creature 
on, but a handkerchief across her bosom. There was no 
standing all this; the crew forward and in the waist were 
all on the broad grin, while the officers, after struggling to 
maintain their gravity until they were nearly suffocated, 
fairly gave in, and the whole ship echoed with the most up- 
roarious laughter; a young villain, whether a mid or no I 
could not tell, yelling out in the throng, “Hurra for Tom 
Cringle’s Tail!” 

I was fairly beginning to lose countenance, when up 
jumped Sneezer to my relief out of the boat, with an old 
cocked hat lashed on his head, a marine’s jacket buttoned 
round his body, and his coal-black muzzle bedaubed with 
pipe-clay, regularly monkeyfied, the momentary handiwork 
of some wicked little reefers, while a small pipe sung out 


i88 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


quietly, as if not intended to reach the quarterdeck, although 
it did do so, “ And here conies the last joint of Mr Cringle’s 
Tail.” The dog began floundering and jumping about, and 
walloping amongst the people, most of whom knew him, and 
immediately drew their attention from me and my party to 
himself; for away they all bundled forward, dog and men, 
tumbling and scrambling about like so many children, leav- 
ing the coast clear to me and my attendants. The absurdity 
of the whole exhibition had, for an instant, even under the 
very nose of a proverbially taught hand, led to freedoms 
which I believed impossible in a man-of-war. However, there 
was too much serious matter in hand, independently of any 
other consideration, to allow the merriment created by our 
appearance to last long. 

Captain Transom, immediately on being informed how 
matters stood, with seaman-like promptitude, determined to 
lighten the Gleam, and send her in with the boats, for the 
purpose of destroying the haunts of the pirates, and recover- 
ing the men, if they were still alive; but before any thing 
could be done, it came on to blow, and for a week we had 
great difficulty in maintaining our position off the coast 
against the strength of the gale and lee current. 

It was on the Sunday morning after I had escaped, that it 
moderated sufficiently for our purpose, when both vessels 
stood close in, and Peter and I were sent to reconnoitre the 
entrance of the port in the gig. Having sounded and taken 
the bearings of the land, we returned on board, when the 
Gleam’s provisions were taken out and her water started. 
The ballast was then shifted, so as to bring her by the head, 
that she might thus draw less water by being on an even 
keel, all sharp vessels of her class requiring much deeper 
water aft than forward; the corvette’s launch, with a 12- 
pound carronade fitted, was then manned and armed with 
thirty seamen and marines, under the command of the second 
lieutenant; the jolly boat and the two quarter boats, each 
with twelve men, followed in a string, under the third lieu- 
tenant, the master, and the senior midshipman ; thirty picked 
hands were added to the schooner’s crew, and I was desired 
to take the gig with six smart hands and Peter Mangrove, 
and to accompany the whole as pilot; but to pull out of 
danger as soon as the action commenced, so as to be ready 
to help any disabled boat, or to carry orders from the com- 
manding officer. 

At nine in the morning, we gave three cheers, and leaving 
the corvette, with barely forty hands on board, the Gleam 
made sail towards the harbour’s mouth, with the boats in 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


189 

tow; but when we got within musket-shot of the entrance, 
the breeze failed us, when the order of sailing was reversed, 
the boats now taking the schooner in tow, preceded by your 
humble servant in the gig. We dashed safely through the 
small canal of blue water, which divided the surf at the har- 
bour’s mouth, having hit it to a nicety; but when about a 
pistol-shot from the entrance, the channel narrowed to a 
muddy creek, not more than twenty yards wide, with high 
trees, and thick underwood close to the water’s edge. All 
was silent, the sun shone down upon us like the concentrated 
rays of a burning-glass, and there was no breeze to dissipate 
the heavy dank mist that hovered over the surface of the 
unwholesome canal, nor was there any appearance of a living 
thing, save and except a few startled water-fowl, and some 
guanas on the trees, and now and then an alligator, like a 
black log of charred wood, would roll off a slimy bank of 
brown mud, with a splash into the water. 

We rowed on, the schooner every now and then taking 
the ground, but she was always quickly warped off again by 
a kedge; at length, after we had in all proceeded, it might 
be, -about a mile from the beach, we came to a boom of strong 
timber clamped with iron, stretching across the creek. We 
were not unprepared for this; one of two old 32-pound car- 
ronades, which, in anticipation of some obstruction of the 
sort, had been got on deck from amongst the Gleam’s ballast, 
and properly slung, was now made fast to the middle timber of 
the boom, and let go, when the weight of it sunk it to the 
bottom, and we passed on. We pulled on for about half a 
mile farther, when we noticed, high up on a sunny cliff, that 
shot boldly out into the clear blue heavens, a small red flag 
suddenly run up to the top of a tall, scathed, branchless 
palm-tree, where it flared for a moment in the breeze like the 
flame of a torch, and then as suddenly disappeared. “ Come, 
they are on the look-out for us, I see.” 

The hills continued to close on us as we advanced, and 
that so precipitously, that we might have been crushed to 
pieces had half-a-dozen active fellows, without any risk to 
themselves, for the trees would have screened them, simply 
loosened some of the fragments of rock that impended over 
us, so threateningly, it seemed as if a little finger could have 
sent them bounding and thundering down the mountain 
side; but this either was not the game of the people we were 
in search of, or Obed’s spirit and energy had been crushed 
out of him by the heart-depressing belief that his hours were 
numbered, for no active obstruction was offered. 

We now suddenly rounded an abrupt corner of the creek. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


190 


and there we were full in front of the schooners, who, with 
the felucca in advance, were lying in line of battle, with 
springs on their cables. The horrible black pennant was, in 
the present instance, no where to be seen; indeed, why such 
an impolitic step as ever to have shewn it at all was taken 
in the first attack, I never could understand; for the force 
was too small to have created any serious fear of being cap- 
tured, (unless indeed it had been taken for an advanced 
guard, supported by a stronger,) while it must have appeared 
probable to Obediah, that the loss of the two boats would in 
all likelihood lead to a more powerful attempt, when, if it 
were successful, the damning fact of having fought under 
such an infernal emblem must have insured a pirate’s death 
on the gibbet to every soul who was taken, unless he had 
intended to have murdered all the witnesses of it. But since 
proof in my person and the pilot’s existed, now, if ever, was 
the time for mortal resistance, and to have hoisted it, for 
they knew that they all fought with halters about their 
necks. They had all the Spanish flag flying except the Wave, 
which shewed American colours, and the felucca, which had 
a white flag hoisted, from which last, whenever our gig ap- 
peared, a canoe shoved off, and pulled towards us. The 
officer, if such he might be called, also carried a white flag 
in his hand. He was a daring-looking fellow, and dashed 
up alongside of me. The incomprehensible folly of trying 
at this time of day to cloak the real character of the vessels, 
puzzled me and does so to this hour. I have never got a 
clew to it, unless it was that Obed’s strong mind had given 
way before his superstitious fears, and others had now as- 
sumed the right of both judging and acting for him in this 
his closing scene. The pirate officer at once recognized me, 
but seemed neither surprised nor disconcerted at the strength 
of the force which accompanied me. He asked me in Span- 
ish if I commanded it ; I told him I did not, that the captain 
of the schooner was the senior officer. 

“Then will you be good enough to go on board with me, 
to interpret for me ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

In half a minute we were both on the Gleam’s deck, the 
crews of the boats that had her in tow lying on their oars. 

“You are the commander of this force?” said the Span- 
iard. 

“ I am,” said old Gasket, who had figged himself out in 
full puff, after the manner of the ancients, as if he had been 
going to church, instead of to fight; “and who the hell are 
you ? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


191 

“ I commani one of these Spanish schooners, sir, which 
your boats so unwarrantably attacked a week ago, although 
you are at peace with Spain. But even had they been ene- 
mies, they were in a friendly port, which should have pro- 
tected them.” 

“ All very good oysters,” quoth old Dick ; “ and pray was 
it an honest trick of you to cabbage my young friend. Lieu- 
tenant Cringle there, as if you had been slavers kidnapping 
the Bungoes in the Bight of Biafra, and then to fire on and 
murder of my people when you sent in to claim them ? ” 

“ As to carrying off that young gentleman, it was no affair 
of ours; he was brought away by the master of that Ameri- 
can schooner; but so far as regards firing on your boats, I 
believe they fired first. But the crews are not murdered; 
on the contrary, they have been well used, and are now on 
board that felucca. I am come to surrender the whole fifteen 
to you.” 

“ The whole fifteen! and what have you made of the other 
twelve ?" 

“ Gastados,” said the fellow, with all the sang froid in the 
world, “gastados [spent or expended] by their own folly.” 

“ Oh, they are expended , are they ? then give us the 
fifteen ” 

“ Certainly, but you will in this case withdraw your force, 
of course ? ” 

“ We shall see about that — go and send us the men.” 

He jumped down into the canoe, and shoved off; — when- 
ever he reached the felucca, he struck the white flag, and 
hoisted the Spanish in its stead, and by hauling on a spring, 
he brought her to cover the largest schooner so effectually, 
that we could not fire a shot at her without going through 
the felucca. We could see all the men leave this latter vessel 
in two canoes, and go on board one of the other craft. There 
was now no time to be lost, so I dashed at the felucca in the 
gig and broke open the hatches, where we found the captured 
seamen and their gallant leader, Lieutenant * * *, in 

a sorry plight, expecting nothing but to be blown up, or in- 
stant death by shot or the knife. We released them, and, 
sending to the Gleam for ammunition and small arms led 
the way in the felucca, by Mr Gasket’s orders, to the attack, 
the corvette’s launch supporting us ; while the schooner with 
the other craft were scraping up as fast as they could. We 
made straight for the largest schooner, which with her con- 
sorts now opened a heavy fire of grape and musketry, which 
we returned with interest. I can tell little of what took 
place till I found myself on the pirate’s quarterdeck, after a 


192 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


desperate tussle, and having driven the crew overboard, with 
dead and wounded men thickly strewn about, and our fellows 
busy firing at their surviving antagonists, as they were try- 
ing to gain the shore by swimming. 

Although the schooner we carried was the Commodore, 
and commanded by Obediah in person, yet the pirates, that 
is, the Spanish part of them, by no means showed the fight 
I expected. While we were approaching, no fire could be 
hotter, and their yells and cheers were tremendous; but the 
instant we laid her along-side with the felucca, and swept 
her decks with a discharge of grape from the carronade, 
under cover of which we boarded on the quarter, while the 
launch’s people scrambled up at the bows, their hearts failed, 
a regular panic overtook them, and they jumped overboard, 
without waiting for a taste either of cutlass or boarding-pike. 
The captain himself, however, with about ten Americans, 
stood at bay round the long gun, which, notwithstanding their 
great inferiority in point of numbers to our party, they 
manfully fired three several times at us, after we had carried 
her aft; but we were so close that the grape came past us 
like a round shot, and only killed one hand at each dis- 
charge; whereas at thirty yards farther off, by having had 
room to spread, it might have made a pretty tableau of the 
whole party. I hailed Obed twice to surrender, while our 
people staggered by the extreme hardihood of the small 
group, hung back for an instant; but he either did not hear 
me, or would not, for the only reply he seemed inclined to 
make was by slewing round the gun so as to bring me on 
with it, and the next moment a general rush was made, when 
the whole party was cut down, with three exceptions, one 
of whom was Obed himself, who, getting on the gun, made 
a desperate bound over the men’s heads, and jumped over- 
board. He struck out gallantly, the shot pattering round 
him like the first of a thunder shower, but he dived, appa- 
rently unhurt, and I lost sight of him. 

The other vessels having also been carried, the firing was 
all on our side by this time, and I, along with the other 
officers, was exerting myself to stop the butchery. 

“ Cease firing, men ; for shame, you see they no longer re- 
sist.” — And my voice was obeyed by all except the fifteen 
we had released, who were absolutely mad with fury — per- 
fect fiends; such uncontrollable fierceness I had never wit- 
nessed, — indeed, I had nearly cut one of them down before 
I could make them knock off firing. 

“ Don’t fire, sir,” cried I to one. 

“ Ay, ay, sir ; but that scoundrel made me wash his shirts” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


193 


and he let drive at a poor devil, who was squattering and 
swimming away towards the shore, and shot him through the 
head. 

“ By heavens ! I will run you through, if you fire at that 
man ! ” shouted I to another, a marine, who was taking aim 
at no less a personage than friend Obed, who had risen to 
breathe, and was swimming after the others, but the very last 
man of all. 

“ No, by G — ! he made me wash his trousers , sir” 

He fired — the pirate stretched out his arms, turned slowly 
on his back, with his face towards me. I thought he gave 
me a sort of “ Et tu, Brute ” look, but I dare say it was 
fancy — his feet began to sink, and he gradually disappeared, 
— a few bubbles of froth and blood marking the spot where 
he went down. He had been shot dead. I will not attempt 
to describe my feelings at this moment, — they burned them- 
selves in on my heart at the time, and the impression is in- 
delible. Whether I had or had not acted, in one sense, un- 
justly, by thrusting myself so conspicuously forward in the 
attempt to capture him, after what had passed between us, 
forced itself upon my judgment. I had certainly promised 
that I would, in no way that I could help, be instrumental 
in his destruction or seizure, provided he landed me at St 
J ago, or put me on board a friendly vessel. He did neither, 
so his part of the compact might be considered broken; but 
then it was out of his power to have fulfilled it; besides, he 
not only threatened my life subsequently, but actually 
wounded me; still, however, on great provocation. But what 
“ is writ, is writ.” He has gone to his account, pirate as 
he was, murderer if you will; yet I had, and still have, a 
tear for his memory, — and many a time have I prayed on my 
bare knees that his blue agonized dying look might be erased 
from my brain; — but this can never be. What he had been 
I never learned; but it is my deliberate opinion, that, with a 
clear stage and opportunity, he would have forced himself 
out from the surface of society for good or for evil. The 
unfortunates who survived him, but to expiate their crimes 
on the gibbet at Port Royal, said he had joined them from a 
New York privateer, but they knew nothing farther of him 
beyond the fact, that by his skill and desperate courage, 
within a month he had, by common acclaim, been elected cap- 
tain of the whole band. There was a story current on board 
the corvette, of a small trading craft, with a person answering 
his description, having been captured in the Chesapeake, 
by one of the squadron, and sent to Halifax for adjudica- 
tion, (the master, as in most cases of the kind, being left on 


194 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


board,) which from that hour had never been heard of, 
neither vessel, nor prize crew, nor captain, until two Ameri- 
cans were taken out of a slaver, off the Cape de Verds, by the 
Firebrand, about a year afterwards, after a most brave and 
determined attempt to escape, both of whom were however al- 
lowed to enter, but subsequently deserted off Sandy Hook by 
swimming ashore, in consequence of a pressed hand hinting 
that one of them, surmised to be Obed, had been the master 
of the vessel above mentioned. 

All resistance having ceased, the few of the pirates who 
escaped having scampered into the woods, where it would 
have been in vain to follow them, we secured our prisoners, 
and at the close of a blood day, for fatal had it been to friend 
and foe, the prizes were got under weigh, and before nightfall 
we were all at sea, sailing in a fleet, under convoy of the cor- 
vette and Gleam. 


CHAPTER X 

VOMITO PRIETO 

“ This disease is beyond my practice.” 

The Doctor in Macbeth. 

The second and third acting lieutenants were on board the 
prizes — the purser was busy in his vocation — the doctor 
ditto. Indeed, he and his mates had more on their hands 
than they could well manage. The first lieutenant was en- 
gaged on deck, and the master was in his cot, suffering from 
a severe contusion; so when I got on board the corvette and 
dived into the gunroom in search of some crumbs of comfort, 
the deuce a living soul was there to welcome me, except the 
gunroom steward, who speedily produced some cold meat, and 
asked me if I would take a glass of swizzle. 

The food I had no great fancy to, although I had not 
tasted a morsel since six o’clock in the morning, and it was 
now eight in the evening; but the offer of the grog sounded 
gratefully in mine ear, and I was about tackling to a stout 
rummer of the same, when a smart dandified shaver, with 
gay mother-of-pearl buttons on his jacket, as thick set as 
peas, presented his tallow chops at the door. 

“ Captain Transom desires me to say, that he will be glad 
of your company in the cabin, Mr Cringle.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


195 


“ My compliments — I will wait on him so soon as I have 
had a snack. We have had no dinner in the gun-room to- 
day yet, you know, Mafame.” 

“ Why it was in the knowledge of that the captain sent 
me, sir. He has not had any dinner either ; but it is now on 
the table, and he waits for you.” 

I was but little in spirits, and, to say sooth, was fitter for 
my bed than society; but the captain’s advances had been 
made with so much kindliness, that I got up, and made a 
strong endeavour to rouse myself ; and, and having made my 
toilet as well as my slender means admitted, I followed the 
captain’s steward into the cabin. 

I started — why, I could not well tell — as the sentry at the 
door stood to his arms when I passed in; and, as if I had 
been actually possessed by some wandering spirit, who had 
taken the small liberty of using my faculties and tongue 
without my concurrence, I hastily asked the man if he was 
an American? — He stared in great astonishment for a short 
space — turned his quid — and then rapped out, as angrily 
as respect for a commissioned officer would let him, — “No, 
by , sir ! ” 

This startled me as much as the question I had almost 
unconsciously — and, I may say, involuntarily — put to the 
marine had surprised him, and I made a full stop, and leant 
back against the door-post. The captain, who was walking 
up and down the cabin, had heard me speak, but without 
comprehending the nature of my question, and now recalled 
me in some measure to myself, by inquiring if I wanted any 
thing. I replied, hurriedly, that I did not. 

“Well, Mr. Cringle, dinner is ready — so take that chair 
at the foot of the table, will you ? ” 

I sat down, mechanically, as it appeared to me — for a 
strange swimming dizzy sort of sensation had suddenly over- 
taken me, accompanied by a whoresome tingling, as Shak- 
speare hath it, in my ears. I was unable to eat a morsel ; but 
I could have drunk the ocean, had it been claret or vin-de- 
grave — to both of which I helped myself as largely as good 
manners would allow, or a little beyond, mayhap. All this 
while the captain was stowing his cargo with great zeal, and 
tifting away at the fluids as became an honest sailor after so 
long a fast, interlarding his operations with a civil word to 
me now and then, without any especial regard as to the 
answer I made him, or, indeed, caring greatly whether I an- 
swered him or not. 

“ Sharp work you must have had, Mr Cringle — should 
have liked to have been with you myself. Help yourself. 


196 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


before passing that bottle — zounds, man, never take a bottle 
by the bilge — grasp the neck, man, at least in this fervent 
climate — thank you. Pity you had not caught the captain 
though. What you have told me of that man very much in- 
terested me, coupled with the prevailing reports regarding 
him in the ship — daring dog he must have been — can’t 
forget how gallantly he weathered us when we chased him.” 

I broke silence for the first time. Indeed, I could scarcely 
have done so sooner, even had I chosen it, for the gallant 
officer was rather continuous in his yarn-spinning. How- 
ever, he had nearly dined, and was leaning back, allowing 
the champagne to trickle leisurely from a glass half a yard 
long, which he had applied to his lips, when I said, — 

“ Well, the imagination does sometimes play one strange 
tricks — I verily believe in second sight now, captain, for at 
this very instant I am regularly the fool of my senses, — 
but pray don’t laugh at me;” and I lay back on my chair, 
and pressed my hands over my shut eyes and hot burning 
temples, which were now throbbing as if the arteries would 
have burst. 

The captain, who was evidently much surprised at my 
abruptness, said something hurriedly and rather sharply in 
answer, but I could not for the life of me mark what it was. 

I opened my eyes again, and looked towards the object that 
had before riveted my attention. It was neither more nor 
less than the captain’s cloak, a plain, unpretending, substan- 
tial blue garment, lined with white, which, on coming below, 
he had cast carelessly down on the locker, that ran across the 
after part of the cabin behind him. It was about eighteen 
feet from me, and as there was no light nearer it than the 
swinging lamp over the table at which we were seated, the 
whole of the cabin thereabouts was thrown considerably into 
shade. The cape of the cloak was turned over, shewing the 
white lining, and was rather bundled as it were into a round 
heap, about the size of a man’s head. When first I looked 
at it, there was a dreamy, glimmering indistinctness about 
it that I could not well understand, and I would have said, 
had it been possible, that the wrinkles and folds in it were 
beginning to be instinct with motion, to creep and crawl as 
it were. At all events, the false impression was so strong as 
to jar my nerves, and make me shudder with horror. I 
knew there was no such thing, as well as Macbeth, but never- 
theless it was with an indescribable feeling of curiosity, 
dashed with awe, that I stared intently at it, as if fascinated, 
while almost unwittingly I made the remark already men- 
tioned. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


197 

I had expected that the unaccountable appearance which 
had excited my attention so strongly would have vanished 
with the closing of my eyes ; but it did not, for when I looked 
at it again, the working and shifting of the folds of the cloth 
still continued, and even more distinctly than before. 

“ Very extraordinary all this,” I murmured to myself. 

( u P ra y> Mr Cringle, be sociable, man,” said the captain ; 
“ what the deuce do you see, that you stare over my shoulder 
in that way? Were I a woman now, I should tremble to 
look behind me, while you were glaring aft in that wild, 
moonstruck sort of fashion.” 

_ “ By all that is astonishing,” I exclaimed in great agita- 
tion, “ if the folds of the cape have not arranged themselves 
into the very likeness of his dying face! Why it is his face, 
and no fanciful grouping of my heated brain. Look there, 
sir — look there — I know it can’t be — but there he lies — the 
very features and upper part of the body, lith and limb, as 
when he disappeared beneath the water when he was shot 
dead.” 

I felt the boiling blood, that had been rushing through 
my system like streams of molten lead, suddenly freeze and 
coagulate about my heart, impeding my respiration to such 
a degree that I thought I should have been suffocated. I 
had the feeling as if my soul was going to take wing. It 
was not fear, nor could I say I was in pain, but it was so 
utterly unlike any thing I had ever experienced before, and 
so indescribable, that I thought to myself — “ this may be 
death.” 

“ Why, what a changeable rose you are, Master Cringle,” 
said Captain Transom, good-naturedly; “your face was like 
the north-west moon in a fog but a minute ago, and now it 
is as pale as a lily — blue white, I declare. Why, my man, 
you must be ill, and seriously too.” 

His voice dissipated the hideous chimera — the folds fell, 
and relapsed into their own shape, and the cloak was once 
more a cloak, and nothing more — I drew a long breath. 
“ Ah, it is gone at last, thank God ! ” — and then, aware of 
the strange effect my unaccountable incoherence must have 
had on the skipper, I thought to brazen it out by trying the 
free and easy line, which was neither more nor less than 
arrant impertinence in our relative positions. “ Why, I 
have been heated a little, and amusing myself with sundry 
vain imaginings, but allow me to take wine with you, cap- 
tain,” filling a tumbler with vin-de-grave to the brim as I 
spoke. “ Success to you, sir — here’s to your speedy promo- 
tion — may you soop get a crack frigate; as for me I in- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


198 

tend to be Archbishop of Canterbury, or maid of honour 
to the Queen of Sheba, or something in the heathen my- 
thology.” 

I drank off the wine, although I had the greatest difficulty 
in steadying my trembling hand, and carrying it to my lips; 
but notwithstanding my increasing giddiness, and the buzz- 
ing in my ears, and swimming of mine eyes, I noticed the 
captain’s face of amazement as he exclaimed — 

“ The boy is either mad or drunk, by Jupiter ! ” 

I could not stand his searching and angry look, and in 
turning my eye, it again fell on the cloak, which now seemed 
to be stretched out at greater length, and to be altogether 
more voluminous than it was before. I was forcibly struck 
with this, for I was certain no one had touched it. 

“ By heavens ! it heaves,” I exclaimed, much moved, — 
“ how is this? I never thought to have believed such things, 
— it stirs again — it takes the figure of a man — as if it were 
a pall covering his body. Pray, Captain Transom, what trick 
is this ? — Is there any thing below that cloak there ? ” 

“ What cloak do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, that blue one lying on the locker there — is there 
any cat or dog in the cabin ? ” — and I started on my legs. — 
“ Captain Transom,” I continued, with great vehemence, “ for 
the love of God tell me what is there below that cloak.” 

He looked surprised beyond all measure. 

“ Why, Mr Cringle, I cannot for the soul of me compre- 
hend you ; indeed I cannot ; but, Maf ame, indulge him. See 
if there he any thing below my cloak.” 

The servant walked to the locker, and lifted up the cape 
of it, and was in the act of taking it from the locker, when 
I impetuously desired the man to leave it alone. 

“ I can’t look on him again,” said I ; while the faintish- 
ness increased, so that I could hardly speak. “ Don’t move 
the covering from his face, for God’s sake — don’t remove 
it,” and I lay back in my chair, screening my eyes from the 
lamp with my hands, and shuddering with an icy chill from 
head to foot. 

The captain, who had hitherto maintained the well-bred, 
patronizing, although somewhat distant, air of a superior 
officer to an inferior who was his guest, addressed me now 
in an altered tone, and with a brotherly kindness. 

“Mr Cringle, I have some knowledge of you, and I know 
many of your friends; so I must take the liberty of an old 
acquaintance with you. This day’s work has been a severe 
one, and your share in it, especially after your past fatigues, 
has been very trying, and as I will report it, I hope it may 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


199 


clap a good spoke in your wheel; but you are overheated, 
and have been over-excited; fatigue has broken you down, 
and I must really request you will take something warm, and 
turn in. — Here, Mafame, get the carpenter’s mate to secure 
that cleat on the weather-side there, and sling my spare 
cot for Mr Cringle. — You will be cooler here than in the 
gun-room.” 

I heard his words without comprehending their meaning. 
I sat and stared at him, quite conscious, all the time, of the 
extreme impropriety, not to say indecency, of my conduct; 
but there was a spell on me; I tried to speak, but could not; 
and, believing that I was either possessed by some dumb 
devil, or struck with palsy, I rose up, bowed to Captain 
Transom, and straightway hied me on deck. 

I could hear him say to his servant, as I was going up the 
ladder, “ Look after that young gentleman, Mafame, and 
send Isaac to the doctor, and bid him come here now;” and 
then, in a commiserating tone — “Poor young fellow, what 
a pity ! ” 

When I got on deck all was quiet. The cool fresh air had 
an instantaneous effect on my shattered nerves, the violent 
throbbing in my head ceased, and I began to hug myself with 
the notion that my distemper, whatever it might have been, 
had beaten a retreat. 

Suddenly I felt so collected and comfortable, as to be 
quite alive to the loveliness of the scene. It was a beauti- 
ful moonlight night; such a night as is no where to be 
seen without the Tropics, and not often within them. There 
was just breeze enough to set the sails to sleep, although 
not so strong as to prevent their giving a low murmuring 
flap now and then, when the corvette rolled a little heavier 
than usual on the long swell. There was not a cloud to be 
seen in the sky, not even a stray shred of thin fleecy gauze- 
like vapour, to mark the direction of the upper current of 
the air, by its course across the moon’s disk, which was now 
at the full, and about half-way up her track in the liquid 
heavens. 

The small twinkling lights from millions of lesser stars, 
in that part of the firmament where she hung,, round as a 
silver pot-lid — shield I mean — were swamped in the flood 
of greenish-white radiance shed by her, and it was only a few 
of the first magnitude, with a planet here and there, that 
were visible to the naked eye, in the neighbourhood of her 
crystal bright globe; but the clear depth, and dark translu- 
cent purity of the profound, when the eye tried to pierce into 
it at the zenith, where the stars once more shone and 


200 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


sparkled thick and brightly, beyond the merging influence 
of the pale cold orb, no man can describe now — one could, 
once — but rest his soul, be is dead — and then to look forth 
far into the night, across the dark ridge of many a heaving 
swell of living water — but “ Thomas Cringle, ahoy — where 
the devil are you cruising to ? ” So, to come back to my 
story. I went aft, and mounted the small poop, and looked 
towards the aforesaid moon — a glorious, resplendent, tropi- 
cal moon, and not the paper lantern affair hanging in an 
atmosphere of fog and smoke, about which your blear-eyed 
poets haver so much. By the by, these gentry are fond of 
singing of the blessed sun — were they sailors they would bless 

the moon also, and be to them, in place of writing much 

wearisome poetry regarding her blighting propensities. But 
I have lost the end of my yarn once more, in the strands of 
these parentheses. — Lord, what a word to pronounce in the 
plural ! — I can no more get out now, than a girl’s silk-worm 
from the innermost of a nest of pill boxes, where, to ride the 
simile to death at once, I have warped the thread of my 
story so round and round me, that I can’t for the life of me 
unravel it. Very odd all this. Since I have recovered of 
this fever, every thing is slack about me; I can’t set up the 
shrouds and backstays of my mind, not to speak of bob- 
stays, if I should die for it. The running rigging is all right 
enough, and the canvass is there; but I either can’t set it, 
or when I do, I find I have too little ballast, or I get involved 
amongst shoals, and white water, and breakers, — don’t you 
hear them roar ? — which I cannot weather, and crooked chan- 
nels, under some lee-shore, through which I cannot scrape 
clear. So down must go the anchor, as at present, and there 
— there goes the chain-cable, rushing and rumbling through 
the hause-hole. But I suppose it will be all right by and by, 
as I get stronger. 

“ But rouse thee, Thomas ! Where is the end of this yarn, 
that you are blarneying about ? ” 

“ Avast heaving, you swab you — avast — if you had as much 
calomel in your corpus as I have at this present speaking — 
why, you would he a lad of more mettle than I take you for, 
that is all. — You would have about as much quicksilver in 
your stomach, as I have in my purse, and all my silver has 
been quick, ever since I remember, like the jests of the grave- 
digger in Hamlet — But, as you say, where the devil is the end 
of this yarn ? ” 

Ah, here it is ! so off we go again — and looked forward to- 
wards the rising moon, whose shining wake of glow-worm 
coloured light, sparkling in the small waves, that danced in 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


201 


the gentle wind on the heaving bosom of the dark-blue sea, 
was right a-head of us, like a river of quicksilver with its 
course diminished in the distance to a point, flowing towards 
us, from the extreme verge of the horizon, through a rolling 
sea of ink, with the waters of which, for a time, it disdained 
to blend. Concentrated, and shining like polished silver afar 
off — intense and sparkling as it streamed down nearer, but 
becoming less and less brilliant as it widened in its approach 
to us, until, lik*e the stream of the great estuary of the Mag- 
dalena, losing itself in the salt waste of waters, it gradually 
melted beneath us and around us into the darkness. 

I looked aloft — every object appeared sharply cut out 
against the dark firmament, and the swaying of the mastheads 
to and fro, as the vessel rolled, was so steady and slow, that 
they seemed stationary, while it was the moon and stars 
which appeared to vibrate and swing from side to side, high 
over head, like the vacillation of the clouds in a theatre, 
when the scene is first let down. 

The masts and yards, and standing and running rigging, 
looked like black pillars, and bars, and wires of iron, reared 
against the sky, by some mighty spirit of the night; and the 
sails, as the moon shone dimly through them, were as dark 
as if they had been tarpaulings. But when I walked forward 
and looked aft, what a beauteous change! Now each mast, 
with its gently swelling canvass, the higher sails decreasing 
in size, until they tapered away nearly to a point, through 
topsail, topgallant-sail, royal and skysails, shewed like tow- 
ers of snow, and the cordage like silver threads, while each 
dark spar seemed to be of ebony, fished with ivory, as a flood 
of cold, pale, mild light streamed from the beauteous planet 
over the whole stupendous machine, lighting up the sand- 
white decks, on which the shadows of the men, and of every 
object that intercepted the moonbeams, were cast as strongly 
as if the planks had been inlaid with jet. 

There was nothing moving about the decks. The look- 
outs aft, and at the gangways, sat or stood like statues half 
bronze, half alabaster. The old quartermaster, who was cun- 
ning the ship, and had perched himself on a carronade, with 
his arm leaning on the weather nettings, was equally mo- 
tionless. The watch had all disappeared forward, or were 
stowed out of sight under the lee of the boats ; the first lieu- 
tenant, as if captivated by the serenity of the scene, was 
leaning with folded arms on the weather-gangway, looking 
abroad upon the ocean, and whistling now and then, either 
for a wind or for want of thought. The only being who 
shewed sign of life was the man at the wheel, and he scarcely 


202 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


moved, except now and then to give her a spoke or two, when 
the cheep of the tiller-rope, running through the well-greased 
leading blocks, would grate on the ear as a sound of some 
importance; while in daylight, in the ordinary bustle of the 
ship, no one could say he ever heard it. 

Three bells ! — “ Keep a bright look-out there,” sung out 
the lieutenant. 

“Ay, ay, sir,” from the four look-out men, in a volley. 

Then from the weather gang-way, “ All’s well,” rose shrill 
into the night air. 

The watchword was echoed by the man on the forecastle, 
re-echoed by the lee-gangway look-out, and ending with the 
response of the man on the poop. My dream was dissipated 
— and so was the first lieutenant’s, who had but little poetry 
in his composition, honest man. 

“ Fine night, Mr Cringle. Look aloft, how beautifully set 
the sails are; that mizen-topsail is well cut, eh? Sits well, 
don’t it? But — Confound the lubbers! Boatswain’s mate, 
call the watch.” 

Whi-whew, whi-whew, chirrup, chip, chip — the deck was 
alive in an instant, “ as bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke.” 

“ Where is the captain of the mizen-top ?” growled the 
man in authority. 

“ Here, sir.” 

“ Here, sir ! — look at the weather-clew of the mizen-top- 
sail, -sir — look at that sail, sir — how many turns can you 
count in that clew, sir ? Spring it, you no-sailor you — spring 
it, and set the sail again.” 

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable all this appeared 
to me at the time, I well remember ; but the obnoxious turns 
were shaken out, and the sail set again so as to please even 
the fastidious eye of the lieutenant, who, seeing nothing 
more to find fault with, addressed me once more. 

“Have had no grub since morning, Mr Cringle; all the 
others are away in the prizes; you are as good as one of us 
now, only want the order to join, you know — so, will you 
oblige me and take charge of the deck, until I go below and 
change my clothes, and gobble a bit ? ” 

“ Unquestionably — with much pleasure.” 

He forthwith dived, and I walked aft a few steps towards 
where the old quartermaster was standing on the gun. 

“ How is her head, quartermaster ? ” 

“ South-east and by south, sir. If the wind holds, we shall 
weather Morant Point, I think, sir.” 

“Very like, very like. — What is that glancing backwards 
and forwards across the port-hole there, quartermaster ? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


203 


1 1 told you so, Mafame,” said the man ; “ what are you 
skylarking about the mizen-chains foreman? — Come in, will 
you, come in.” 

The captain’s caution to his servant flashed on me. 

“ Come in, my man, and give my respects to the captain, 
and tell him that I am quite well now; the fresh air has 
perfectly restored me.” 

“ I will, sir,” said Mafame, half ashamed at being detected 
in his office of inspector-general of my actions; but the doc- 
tor, to whom he had been sent, having now got a leisure mo- 
ment from his labour in the shambles, came up and made 
inquiries as to how I felt. 

“ Why, doctor, I thought I was in for a fever half an hour 
ago, but it is quite gone off, or nearly so — there, feel my 
pulse.” — It was regular, and there was no particular heat 
of skin. 

“ Why, I don’t think there is much the matter with you. 
Mafame, tell the captain so; but turn in and take some rest 
as soon as you can, and I will see you in the morning — and 
here,” feeling in his waistcoat pocket, “ here are a couple of 
capers for you; take them now, will you? ” — (And he handed 
me two blue pills, which I the next moment chucked over- 
board, to cure some bilious dolphin of the liver complaint.) 
I promised to do so whenever the lieutenant relieved the 
deck, which would, I made no question, be within half an 
hour. 

“ Very well, that will do — good night. I am regularly 
done up myself,” quoth the medico, as he descended to the 
gunroom. 

At this time of night the prizes were all in a cluster under 
our lee quarter, like small icebergs covered with snow, and 
carrying every rag they could set. The Gleam was a good 
way a-stern, as if to w T hip them in, and to take care that no 
stray piccaroon should make a dash at any of them. They 
slid noiselessly along like phantoms of the deep, every thing 
in the air and in the water was so still — I crossed to the lee 
side of the deck to look at them — The Wave, seeing some 
one on the hammock-nettings, sheered close to, under the 
Firebrand’s lee quarter, and some one asked, “ Do you want 
to speak us ? ” The man’s voice, reflected from the concave 
surface of the schooner’s mainsail, had a hollow, echoing 
sound, that startled me. 

“ I should know that voice,” said I to myself, “ and the 
figure steering the schooner.” The throbbing in my head 
and a dizzy feel, which had capsized my judgment in the 
cabin, again returned with increased violence — “It was no 


204 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


deception after all,” thought I, “ no cheat of the senses — I 
now believe such things are.” 

The same voice now called out, “ Come away Tom, come 
away,” no doubt to some other seaman on board the little 
vessel, but my heated fancy did not so construe it. The cold 
breathless fit again overtook me, and I ejaculated, “ God 
have mercy upon me a sinner ! ” 

“ Why don’t you come, Tom? ” said the voice once more. 

It was Obed’s. At this very instant of time, the Wave 
forged a-head into the Firebrand’s shadow, so that her sails, 
but a moment before white as wool in the bright moon- 
beams, suffered a sudden eclipse, and became black as ink. 

“ His dark spirit is there,” said I, audibly, “ and calls me 
— go I will, whatever may befall.” 

I hailed the schooner, or rather I had only to speak, and 
that in a low tone, for she was now close under the counter 
— “ Send your boat, for since you call, I know I must come.” 

A small canoe slid off her deck; tw T o shipboys got into it, 
and pulled under the starboard mizen-chains, which entirely 
concealed them, as they held on for a moment with a boat- 
hook in the dark shadow of the ship. This was done so 
silently, that neither the look-out on the poop, who was 
rather on the weather side at the moment, nor the man at 
the lee gangway, who happened to be looking out forward, 
heard them, qr saw me, as I slipped down unperceived. 

“ Pull back again, my lads ; quick now, quick.” 

In a moment, I was alongside, the next I was on deck, 
and in this short space a change had come over the spirit of 
my dream, for I now was again conscious that I was on 
board the Wave with a prize crew. My imagination had 
taken another direction. 

“ Now, Mr , I beg pardon, I forgot your name,” — I 

had never heard it — “ make more sail, and haul out from 
the fleet for Mancheoneal Bay; I have despatches for the 
admiral — So, crack on.” 

The midshipman who was in charge of her never for an 
instant doubted but that all was right; sail was made, and 
as the light breeze was the very thing for the little Wave, 
she began to snore through it like smoke. When she had 
shot a cable’s length a-head of the Firebrand, we kept away 
a point or two, so as to stand more in for the land, and, like 
most maniacs, I was inwardly exulting at the success of my 
manoeuvre, when we heard the corvette’s bell struck rapidly. 
Her maintop sail was suddenly laid to the mast, whilst a 
loud voice echoed amongst the sails — “ Any one see him in 
the waist — any body see him forward there ? ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


205 


“ No, sir, no.” 

“ Afterguard, fire, and let go the life-buoy — lower away 
the quarter-boats — jolly-boat also.” 

We saw the flash, and presently the small blue light of the 
buoy, blazing and disappearing, as it rose and fell on the 
waves, in the corvette’s wake, sailed away astern, sparkling 
fitfully, like an ignis fatuus. The cordage rattled through 
the davit blocks, as the boats dashed into the water — the 
splash of the oars was heard, and presently the twinkle of 
the life-buoy was lost in the lurid glare of the blue-lights, 
held aloft in each boat, where the crews were standing up, 
looking like spectres by the ghastly blaze, and anxiously 
peering about for some sign of the drowning man. 

“ A man overboard,” was repeated from one to another of 
the prize crew. 

“ Sure enough,” said I. 

“ Shall we stand back, sir ? ” said the midshipman. 

“To what purpose? — there are enough there without us — 
no, no ; crack on, we can do no good — carry on, carry on ! ” 

We did so, and I now found severe shooting pains, more 
racking than the sharpest rheumatism I had ever suffered, 
pervading my whole body. They increased until I suffered 
the most excruciating agony, as if my bones" had been con- 
verted into red-hot tubes of iron, and the marrow in them 
had been dried up with fervent heat, and I was obliged to beg 
that a hammock might be spread on deck, on which I lay 
down, pleading great fatigue and want of sleep as my excuse. 

My thirst was unquenchable; the more I drank, the hotter 
it became. My tongue, and mouth, and throat were burning, 
as if molten lead had been poured down into my stomach, 
while the most violent retching came on every ten minutes. 
The prize crew, poor fellows, did all they could — once or 
twice they seemed about standing back to the ship, but 
“make sail, make sail,” was my only cry. They did so, and 
there I lay without any thing between me and the wet planks 
but a thin sailor’s blanket and the canvass of the hammock, 
through the livelong night, and with no covering but a damp 
boat-cloak, raving at times during the hot fits, at others hav- 
ing my power of utterance frozen up during the cold ones. 
The men, once or twice, offered to carry me below, but the 
idea was horrible to me. 

“No, no — not there — for heaven’s sake not there! If you 
do take me down, I am sure I shall see him, and the dead 
mate — No, no — overboard rather, throw me overboard 
rather.” 

Oh, what would I not have given for the luxury of a flood 


206 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


of tears ! — But the fountains of mine eyes were dried up, and 
seared as with red-hot iron — my skin was parched, and hot, 
hot, as if every pore had been hermetically sealed; there was 
a hell within me and about me, as if the deck on which I lay 
had been steel at a white heat, and the gushing blood, as under 
the action of a force-pump, throbbed through my head, like 
as it would have burst on my brain — and such a racking, split- 
ting headach — no language can describe it, and yet ever and 
anon in the midst of this raging fire, this furnace at my heart, 
seven times heated, a sudden icy shivering chill would shake 
me, and pierce through and through me, even when the roast- 
ing fever was at the hottest. 

At length the day broke on the long, long, moist steamy 
night, and once more the sun rose to bless every thing but 
me. As the morning wore on, my torments increased with 
the heat, and I lay sweltering on deck, in a furious delirium, 
held down forcibly by two men, who were relieved by others 
every now and then, while I raved about Obed, and Paul, and 
the scenes I had witnessed on board during the chase, and in 
the attack. None of my rough but kind nurses expected I 
could have held on till nightfall; but shortly after sunset I 
became more collected, and, as I was afterwards told, when- 
ever any little office was performed for me, whenever some 
drink was held to my lips, I would say to the gruff, sun-burnt, 
black-whiskered, square-shouldered topman, who might be my 
Ganymede for the occasion, “ Thank you, Mary ; Heaven 
bless your pale face, Mary ; bless you, bless you ! '' 

It seemed my fancy had shaken itself clear of the fearful 
objects that had so pertinaciously haunted me before, and 
occupying itself with pleasing recollections, had produced a 
corresponding calm in the animal; but the poor fellow to 
whom I had expressed myself so endearingly, was, I learned, 
most awfully put out and dismayed. He twisted and turned 
his iron features into all manner of ludicrous combinations, 
under the laughter of his mates — “Now, Peter, may I be 

but I would rather be shot at, than hear the poor young 

gentleman so quiz me in his madness.” 

Then again — as I praised his lovely taper fingers — they 
were more like bunches of frosted carrots, dipped in a tar- 
bucket, with the tails snapt short off, where about an inch 
thick, only 

“My taper fingers— oh Lord! Now, Peter, I can't stomach 
this any longer — I'll give you my grog for the next two days, 
if you will take my spell here — My taper fingers — murder ! ” 

As the evening closed in we saw the high land of Jamaica, 
but it was the following afternoon before we were off the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


207 


entrance of Mancheoneal Bay. All this period, although it 
must have been one of great physical suffering, has ever, to 
my ethereal part, remained a dead blank. The first thing I 
remember afterwards, was being carried ashore in the dark 
in a hammock slung on two oars, so as to form a sort of rude 
palanquin, and laid down at a short distance from the over- 
seer’s house where my troubles had originally commenced. 
I soon became perfectly sensible and collected, but I was so 
weak I could not speak; after resting a little, the men again 
lifted me and proceeded. The door of the dining-hall, which 
was the hack entrance into the overseer’s house, opened flush 
into the little garden through which we had come in — there 
were lights, and sounds of music, singing, and jovialty 
within. The farther end of the room, at the door of which 
I now rested, opened into the piazza, or open veranda, which 
crossed it at right angles, and constituted the front of the 
house, forming, with this apartment, a figure somewhat like 
the letter T. I stood at the foot of the letter, as it were, 
and as I looked towards the piazza, which was gaily lit up, 
I could see it was crowded with male and female negroes in 
their holyday apparel, with their wholesome clear brown- 
black skins, not Mwe-black as they appear in our cold coun- 
try, and beautiful white teeth and sparkling black eyes, 
amongst whom were several gumbie-men and flute-players, 
and John Canoes, as the negro Jack Pudding is called; the 
latter distinguishable by wearing white false-faces, and enor- 
mous shocks of horsehair, fastened on to their woolly pates. 
Their character hovers somewhere between that of a harle- 
quin and a clown, as they dance about and thread through 
the negro groups, quizzing the women and slapping the men; 
and at Christmas time, the grand negro carnival, they don’t 
confine their practical jokes to their own colour, but take 
all manner of comical liberties with the whites equally with 
their fellow-bondsmen. 

The blackamoor visiters had suddenly, to all appearance, 
broken off their dancing, and were now clustered behind a 
rather remarkable group, who were seated at supper in the 
dining-room, near to where I stood, forming, as it were, the 
foreground in the scene. Mr Fyall himself was there, and 
a rosy-gilled, happy-looking man, who I thought I had seen 
before; this much I could discern, for the light fell strong 
on them, especially on the face of the latter, which shone 
like a star of the first magnitude, or a lighthouse in the red 
gleam — the usual family of the overseer, the bookkeepers 
that is, and the worthy who had been the proximate cause 
of all my sufferings, the overseer himself, were there too, as 


208 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


if they had been sitting still at table where I saw them now, 
ever since I left them three weeks before — at least my fancy 
did me the favour to annihilate, for the nonce, all interme- 
diate time between the point of my departure on the night of 
the cooper’s funeral, and the moment when I now revisited 
them. 

I was lifted out of the hammock, and supported to the 
door between two seamen. The fresh, nice-looking man be- 
fore mentioned, Aaron Bang, Esquire, by name, an incipient 
planting attorney in the neighbourhood, of great promise, 
was in the act of singing a song, for it was during some 
holyday-time, which had broken down the stiff observances 
of a J amaica planter’s life. There he sat, lolling back on his 
chair, with his feet upon the table, and a cigar, half-con- 
sumed, in his hand. He had twisted up his mouth and 
mirth-provoking face, and slewing his head on one side, he 
was warbling, ore rotundo, some melodious ditty, with infi- 
nite complacency, and, to all appearance, to the great delight 
of his auditory, when his eyes lighted on me, — he was petri- 
fied in a moment, — I seemed to have blasted him, — his war- 
bling ceased instantaneously, — the colour faded from his 
cheeks, — but there he sat, with open mouth, and in the same 
attitude, as if he still sung, and I had suddenly become deaf, 
or as if he and his immediate compotators, and the group of 
blackies beyond, had all been on the instant turned to stone 
by a slap from one of their own John Canoes. I must have 
been in truth a terrible spectacle; my skin was yellow, not 
as saffron, but as the skin of a ripe lime; the white of my 
eyes, to use an Irishism, ditto; my mouth and lips had fes- 
tered and broke out , as we say in Scotland; my head was 
bound round with a napkin — none of the cleanest, you may 
swear; my dress was a pair of dirty duck trowsers, and my 
shirt, with the boat-cloak that had been my only counterpane 
on board of the little vessel, hanging from my shoulders. 

Lazarus himself could scarcely have been a more appalling 
object, when the voice of him who spoke as never man spake, 
said, “ Lazarus, come forth.” 

I made an unavailing attempt to cross the threshold, but 
could not. I was spellbound, or there was an invisible bar- 
rier erected against me, which I could not overleap. The 
buzzing in my ears, the pain and throbbing in my head, and 
racking aches* once more bent me to the earth — ill and re- 
duced as I was, a relapse, thought I; and I felt my judg- 
ment once more giving way before the sweltering fiend, who 
had retreated but for a moment to renew his attacks with 
still greater fierceness. The moment he once more entered 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


209 


into me — the instant that I was possessed — I cannot call it 
by any other name — an unnatural strength pervaded my 
shrunken muscles and emaciated frame, and I stepped boldly 
into the hall. While I had stood at the door, listless and 
feeble as a child, hanging on the arms of the two topmen, 
after they had raised me from the hammock, the whole party 
had sat silently gazing at me, with their faculties paralyzed 
with terror. But now, when I stumped into the room like 
the marble statue in Don Juan, and glared on them, my eyes 
sparkling with unearthly brilliancy under the fierce distem- 
per which had anew thrust its red-hot fingers into my maw, 
and was at the moment seething my brain in its hellish cal- 
dron, the negroes in the piazza, one and all, men, women, and 
children, evanished into the night, and the whole party in 
the foreground started to their legs, as if they had been sud- 
denly galvanized; the table and chairs were overset, and 
whites and blacks trundled, and scrambled, and bundled over 
and over each other, neck and crop, as if the very devil had 
come to invite them to dinner in propria persona , horns, tail, 
and all. 

“ Duppy come! Duppy come! Massa Tom Cringle ghost 
stand at for we door; we all shall dead, oh — we all shall go 
dead, oh! ” bellowed the father of gods, my old ally Jupiter. 

“ Guid guide us, that’s an awfu’ sicht ! ” quod the Scotch 
bookkeeper. 

“ By the hockey, speak if you be a ghost, or I’ll exercise 
[exorcise] ye with this butt of a musket,” quoth the cowboy 
— an Irishman to be sure, whose round bullet head was dis- 
cernible in the human mass, by his black, twinkling, half- 
drunken-looking eyes. 

“ Well-a-day,” groaned another of them, a Welshman, I 
believe, with a face as long as my arm, and a drawl worthy 
of a methodist parson; “and what can it be — flesh and 
blood, it is not — can these dry bones live ? ” 

111 as I was, however, I could perceive that all this row 
had now more of a tipsy frolic in it — whatever it might have 
had at first — than absolute fear; for the red-faced visiter, 
and IVIr. Fyall, as if half-ashamed, speedily extricated them- 
selves from the chaos of chairs and living creatures, righted 
the table, replaced the candles, and having sat down, looking 
as grave as judges on the bench, Aaron Bang exclaimed — 
“I’ll bet a dozen, it is the poor fellow himself returned on 
our hands, half -dead from the rascally treatment he has met 
with at the hands of these smuggling thieves ! ” 

“ Smugglers, or no,” said Fyall, “ you are right for once, 
my peony rose, I do believe.” 


210 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


But Aaron was a leetle staggered, notwithstanding, when 
I stumped towards him, as already described, and he shifted 
back and back as I advanced, with a most laughable cast of 
countenance, between jest and earnest, while Fyall kept 
shouting to him , — “ If it be his ghost, try him in Latin, Mr 
Bang — speak Latin to him, Aaron Bang — nothing for a 
ghost like Latin, it is their mother tongue.” 

Bang, who, it seemed, plumed himself on his erudition, 
forthwith began — “ Quae maribus solum tribuunter.” — 
Aaron’s conceit of exorcising a spirit with the fag-end of an 
old grammar rule would have tickled me under most circum- 
stances, but I was far past laughing. I had more need, God 
help me, to pray. I made' another step. He hitched his 
chair back. “ Bam, Bo, Rem ! ” shouted the incipient plant- 
ing attorney. Another hitch, which carried him clean out 
of the supper-room, and across the narrow piazza; but, in 
this last movement, he made a regular false step, the two 
back-feet of his chair dropping over the first step of the front 
stairs, whereupon he lost his balance, and toppling over, 
vanished in a twinkling, and rolled down half-a-dozen steps, 
heels over head, until he lay sprawling on the manger or 
mule-trough before the door, where the beastesses are fed 
under busha’s own eye on all estates — for this excellent and 
most cogent reason, that otherwise the maize or guinea-corn, 
belonging of right to poor mulo, would generally go towards 
improving the condition, not of the quadruped, but of the 
biped quashie who had charge of him — and there he lay in 
a convulsion of laughter. 

The two seamen, who supported me between them, were 
at first so completely dumbfounded by all this, that they 
could not speak. At length, however, Timothy Tailtackle 
lost his patience, and found his tongue. 

“ This may be Jamaica frolic, good gentlemen, and all 
very comical in its way; but d — n me, if it be either gentle- 
man-like or Christian-like, to be after funning and fuddling, 
while a fellow-creature, and his Majesty’s commissioned of- 
ficer to boot, stands before you, all but dead of one of your 
blasted fevers.” 

- The honest fellow’s straightforward appeal, far from giv- 
ing offence to the kind-hearted people to whom it was made, 
was not only taken in good part, but Mr Fyall himself took 
the lead in setting the whole household immediately to work, 
to have me properly cared for. The best room in the house 
was given up to me. I was carefully shifted and put to bed; 
but during all that night, and the following day, I was rav- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


21 1 


ing in a furious fever, so that I had to be forcibly held down 
in my bed, sometimes for half an hour at a time. 

******* 

I say, messmate, have you ever had the yellow fever, the 
vomito prieto, black vomit, as the Spaniards call it? — No? — 
have you ever had a bad bilious fever then? No bad bilious 
fever either? — Why, then, you are a most unfortunate crea- 
ture; for you have never known what it is to be in Heaven, 
nor eke the other place. Oh, the delight, the blessedness of 
.the languor of recovery, when one finds himself in a large 
airy room, with a dreamy indistinct recollection of great past 
suffering, endured in a small miserable vessel within the 
tropics, where you have been roasted one moment by the 
vertical rays of the sun, and the next annealed, hissing hot, 
by the salt sea spray; — in a broad luxurious bed, some cool 
sunny morning, with the fresh sea-breeze whistling through 
the open windows that look into the piazza, and rustling the 
folds of the clean wire-gauze musquito net that serves you 
for bed-curtains; while beyond you look forth into the se- 
questered court-yard, overshadowed by one vast umbrageous 
kennip-tree, that makes every thing look green, and cool, and 
fresh beneath, and whose branches the rushing wind is rasp- 
ing cheerily on the shingles of the roof — and oh, how passing 
sweet is the lullaby from the humming of numberless glanc- 
ing bright-hued flies, of all sorts and sizes, sparkling among 
the green leaves like chips of a prism, and the fitful whirring 
of the fairy-flitting humming-bird, now here, now there, like 
winged gems, or living “ atoms of the rainbow,” round which 
their tiny wings, moving too quickly to be visible, form little 
haloes — and the palm-tree at the house-corner is shaking its 
long hard leaves, making a sound for all the world like the 
pattering of rain ; and the orange-tree top, with ripe fruit, 
and green fruit, and white blossoms, is waving to and fro 
flush with the window-sill, dashing the fragrant odour into 
your room at every whishj and the double jessamine is twin- 
ing up the papaw (whose fruit, if rubbed on a bull’s hide, 
immediately converts it into a tender beef-steak,) and ab- 
solutely stifling you with sweet perfume; and then the san- 
garee — old Madeira, two parts of water, no more, and nut- 
meg — and not a taste out of a thimble, but a remmerfull 
of it, my boy, that would drown your first-born at his chris- 
tening, if he slipped into it, and no stinting in the use of 
this ocean; on the contrary, the tidy old brown nurse, or 
mayhap a buxom young one, at your bedside, with ever and 
anon a “leetle more panada,” (d — n panada, I had forgotten 


212 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


that!) “ and den some more sangaree; it will do massa good, 
trenthen him tomack ” — and — but I am out of breath, and 
must lie to for a brief space. 

I opened my eyes late in the morning of the second day 
after landing, and saw Mr Fyall and the excellent Aaron 
Bang sitting one on each side of my bed. Although weak 
as a sucking infant, I had a strong persuasion on my mind 
that all danger was over, and that I was convalescent. I had 
no feverish symptoms whatsoever, but felt cool and com- 
fortable, with a fine balmy moisture on my skin; as yet, how- 
ever, I spoke with great difficulty. 

Aaron noticed this. 

“ Don’t exert yourself too much, Tom; take it coolly, man, 
and thank God that you are now fairly round the corner. 
Is your head painful ? ” 

“ No — why should it ? ” 

Mr Fyall smiled, and I put up my hand — it was all I could 
do, for my limbs appeared loaded with lead at the extremi- 
ties, and when I touched any part of my frame, with my 
hand for instance, there was no concurring sensation con- 
veyed by the nerves of the two parts; sometimes I felt as if 
touched by the hand of another; at others, as if I had 
touched the person of some one else. When I raised my 
hand to my forehead, my fingers instinctively moved to take 
hold of my hair, for I was in no small degree proud of some 
luxuriant brown curls, which the women used to praise. Alas 
and alack-a-day! in place of ringlets, glossy with Macassar 
oil, I found a cool young tender plantain-leaf bound round 
my temples. 

“ What is all this ? ” said I. “ A lcale-blade, where my 
hair used to be !” 


“ How came this kale-blade here. 
And how came it here ? ” 


sung friend Bang, laughing, for he had great powers of 
laughter, and I saw he kept his quizzical face turned towards 
some object at the head of the bed, which I could not see. 

“ You may say that, Aaron — where’s my wig, you rogue, 
eh ? ” 


“ Never mind, Tom,” said Fyall, “your hair will soon grow 
again, won’t it, miss?” 

“ Miss ! miss ! ” and I screwed my neck round, and lo ! — 
“ Ah, Mary, and are you the Delilah who have shorn my locks 
— you wicked young female lady you ! ” 

She smiled and nodded to Aaron, who was a deuced favour- 
ite with the ladies, black, brown, and white, (I give the pas 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


213 

to the staple of the country — hope no offence,) as well as with 
every one else who ever knew him. 

“ How dare you, friend Bang, shave and blister my head, 
you dog?” said I — “You cannibal Indian, you have scalped 
me; you are a regular Mohawk.” 

“Never mind, Tom — never mind, my boy,” said he. “Ay, 
you may blush, Mary Palma. Cringle there will fight, but 
he will have ‘ Palmam qui meruit ferat ’ for his motto yet, 
take my word for it.” 

The sight of my cousin’s lovely face, and the heavenly 
music of her tongue, made me so forgiving, that I could be 
angry with no one. — At this moment a nice-looking elderly 
man slid into the room as noiselessly as a cat. 

“ How are you lieutenant ? Why, you are positively gay 
this morning! Preserve me! — why have you taken off the 
dressing from your head ? ” 

“ Preserve me — you may say that, doctor — why, you seem 
to have preserved me, and pickled me after a very remark- 
able fashion, certainly! Why, man, do you intend to make a 
mummy of me, with all your swathings? Now, what is that 
crackling on my chest ? More plantain-leaves, as I live ! ” 

“ Only another blister, sir.” 

“'Only another blister — and my feet — Zounds! what have 
you been doing with my feet ? The soles are as tender as if I 
had been bastinadoed.” 

“ Only cataplasms, sir ; mustard and bird-pepper poultices 
— nothing more.” 

“Mustard and bird-pepper poultices! — and pray, what is 
that long fiddle-case, supported on two chairs in the piazza ! ” 

“ What case ? ” said the good doctor, and his eye followed 
mine. “ Oh, my gun-case. I am a great sportsman, you must 
know — but draw down that blind, Mr. Bang, if you please, 
the breeze is too strong.” 

“ Gun-case ! I would rather have taken it for your game- 
box, doctor. However, thanks be to Heaven, you have not 
bagged me this bout.” 

At this moment I heard a violent scratching and jumping 
on the roof of the house, and presently a loud croak, and a 
strong rushing noise, as of a large bird taking flight — “ What 
is that, doctor ? ” 

“ The devil,” said he, laughing ; “ at least your evil genius, 
lieutenant — it is the carrion crows, the large John-Crows, as 
they are called, flying away. They have been holding a coun- 
cil of war upon you since early dawn, expecting (I may tell 
you, now you are so well) that it might likely soon turn into 
a coroner’s inquest.” 


214 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“John Crow! — Coroner’s inquest! — Cool shavers those 
West India chaps, after all ! ” muttered I ; and again 1 lay 
back, and offered up my heart-warm thanks to the Almighty, 
for his great mercy to me a sinner. 

My aunt and cousin had been on a visit in the neighbour- 
hood, and over-night Mr Fyall had kindly sent for them to 
receive my last sigh, for to all appearance I was fast going. 
Oh, the gratitude of my heart, the tears of joy I wept in my 
weak blessedness, and the overflowing of heart that I expe- 
rienced towards that almighty and ever-merciful Being who 
had spared me, and brought me out of my great sickness, to 
look round on dear friends, and on the idol of my heart, once 
more, after all my grievous sufferings ! I took Mary’s hand — 
I could not raise it for lack of strength, or I would have 
kissed it; but, as she leant over me, Fyall came behind her 
and gently pressed her sweet lips to mine, while the dear girl 
blushed as red as Aaron Bang’s face. By this my aunt her- 
self had come into the room, and added her warm congratula- 
tions, and last, although not least, Timothy Tailtackle made 
his appearance in the piazza at the window, with a clean, 
joyful, well-shaven countenance. He grinned, turned his 
quid, pulled up his trowsers, smoothed down his hair with 
his hand, and gave a sort of half -tipsy shamble, meant for a 
bow, as he entered the bed-room. 

“ You have forereached on Davy this time, sir. Heaven be 
praised for it! He was close aboard of you, howsomdever, 
si'% once or twice.” Then he bowed round the room again, 
with a sort of swing or caper, whichever you choose to call it, 
as if he had been the party obliged. — “ Kind folk, these sir,” 
he continued, in what was meant for sotto voce, and for my 
ear alone, but it was more like the growling of a mastiff 
puppy than any thing else. “ Kind folk, sir — bad as their 
mountebanking looked the first night, sir — why, Lord bless 
jour honour, may they make a marine of me, if they han’t 
set a Bungo to wait on us, Bill and I, that is — and we has 
grog more than does us good — and grub, my eye! — only 
think, sir, — Bill and Timothy Tailtackle waited on by a 
black Bungo ! ” and he doubled himself up, chuckling and 
hugging himself, with infinite glee. 

“ All went now merry as a marriage bell.” I was carefully 
conveyed to Kingston, where I rallied under my aunt’s hos- 
pitable roof, as rapidly almost as I had sickened, and within 
a fortnight, all bypast strangeness explained to my superiors, 
I at length occupied my berth in the Firebrand’s gunroom, 
as third lieutenant of the ship. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


215 


CHAPTER XI 

MORE SCENES IN JAMAICA 

“ There be land-rats and water-rats— water-thieves and land-thieves— I 
mean pirates.” Merchant of Venice. 

The malady, from whose fangs I had just escaped, was at 
this time making fearful ravages amongst the troops and 
white inhabitants of Jamaica generally; nor was the 
squadron exempted from the afflicting visitation, although it 
suffered in a smaller degree. 

I had occasion at this time to visit Up-park camp, a mili- 
tary post about a mile and a half from Kingston, where two 
regiments of infantry, and a detachment of artillery, were 
stationed. 

In the forenoon, I walked out in company with an officer, 
a relation of my own, whom I had gone to visit; enjoying 
the fresh sea-breeze that whistled past us in half a gale of 
wind, although the sun was vertical, and shining into the bot- 
tom of a pint-pot, as the sailors have it. 

The barracks were built on what appeared to me a very dry 
situation, (although I have since heard it alleged that there 
was a swamp to windward of it, over which the sea-breeze 
blew, but this I did not see,) considerably elevated above the 
hot sandy plain on which Kingston stands, and sloping 
gently towards the sea. They were splendid, large, airy, two 
story buildings, well raised off the ground on brick pillars, so 
that there was a perfectly free ventilation of air between the 
surface of the earth and the floor of the first story, as well 
as through the whole of the upper rooms. A large balcony, or 
piazza, ran along the whole of the south front, both above and 
below, which shaded the brick shell of the house from the 
sun, and afforded a cool and convenient lounge for the men. 
The outhouses of all kinds were well thrown back into the 
rear, so that in front there was nothing to intercept the sea- 
breeze. The officers’ quarters stood in advance of the men’s 
barracks, and were, as might be expected, still more com- 
fortable ; and in front of all were the field-officers’ houses, the 
whole of substantial brick and mortar. This superb estab- 
lishment stood in an extensive lawn, not surpassed in beauty 
by any nobleman’s park that I had ever seen. It was immedi- 
ately after the rains when I visited it: the grass was luxuri- 
ant and newly cut, and the trees, which grew in detached 


2l6 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


clumps, were most magnificent. We clambered up into one 
of them, a large umbrageous wild cotton-tree, which cast a 
shadow on the ground — the sun being, as already mentioned, 
right overhead — of thirty paces in diameter; but still it was 
but a dwarfish plant of its kind, for I have measured others 
whose gigantic shadows, at the same hour, were upwards of 
one hundred and fifty feet in diameter, and their trunks, one 
in particular that overhangs the Spanish Town road, twenty 
feet through of solid timber; that is, not including the enor- 
mous spars that shoot out like buttresses, and end in strong 
twisted roots, that strike deep into the earth, and form stays, 
as it were, to the tree in all directions. 

Our object, however — publish it not in Askalon — was, not 
so much to admire the charms of nature, as to enjoy the lux- 
ury of a real Havana cigar, in solitary comfort; and a 
glorious perch we had selected. The shade was grateful be- 
yond measure. The fresh breeze was rushing, almost roaring, 
through the leaves and groaning branches, and every thing 
around was green, and fragrant, and cool, and delicious; by 
comparison that is, for the thermometer would, I dare say, 
have still vouched for eighty degrees. The branches over- 
head were alive with a variety of beautiful lizards, and birds 
of the gayest plumage; amongst others, a score of small 
chattering green paroquets were hopping close to us, and 
playing at bopeep from the lower surfaces of the leaves of 
the wild pine, (a sort of Brobdingnag parasite, that grows, 
like the mistletoe, in the clefts of the larger trees,) to which 
they clung, as green and shining as the leaves themselves, 
and ever and anon popping their little heads and shoulders 
over to peer at us; while the red-breasted woodpecker kept 
drumming on every hollow part of the bark, for all the world 
like old Kelson, the carpenter of the Torch, tapping along 
the top sides for the dry rot. All around us the men were 
lounging about in the shade, and sprawling on the grass in 
their foraging caps and light jackets, with an officer here and 
there lying reading, or sauntering about, bearding Phoebus 
himself, to watch for a shot at a swallow, as it skimmed past ; 
while goats and horses, sheep and cattle, were browsing the 
fresh grass, or sheltering themselves from the heat beneath 
the trees. All nature seemed alive and happy — a little drowsy 
from the heat or so, but that did not much signify — when two 
carts, each drawn by a mule, and driven by a negro, ap- 
proached the tree whereon we were perched. A solitary ser- 
geant accompanied them, and they appeared, when a bowshot 
distant, to be loaded with white deal boxes. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 217 

I paid little attention to them until they drove under the 
tree. 

“I say, Snowdrop,” said the non-commissioned officer, 
“ where be them black rascals, them pioneers — where is the 
fateague party, my Lily-white, who ought to have the trench 
dug by this time ? ” 

“ Here now,” grumbled the negro, “dere now — easy ting to 
deal wid white gentleman, but debil cannot satisfy dem 
worsted sash.” Then aloud — “ Me no know, sir — me can’t tell 
— no for me business to dig hole — I only carry what you fill 
him up wid ; ” and the vampire, looking over his shoulder, 
cast his eye towards his load, and grinned until his white 
teeth glanced from ear to ear. 

“ Now,” said the Irish sergeant, “ I could brain you, but it 
is not worth while ! ” — I question if he could, however, know- 
ing as I did the thickness of their skulls — “Ah, here they 
come ! ” and a dozen half drunken, more than half-naked, 
bloated, villainous-looking blackamoors, with shovels and 
pick-axes on their shoulders, came along the road, laughing 
and singing most lustily. They passed beneath where we sat, 
and, when about a stonecast beyond, they all jumped into a 
trench or pit, which I had not noticed before, about twenty 
feet long, by eight wide. It was already nearly six feet deep, 
but it seemed they had instructions to sink it farther, for 
they first plied their pick-axes, and then began to shovel out 
the earth. When they had completed their labour, the ser- 
geant, who had been superintending their operations, re- 
turned to where the carts were still standing beneath the tree. 
One of them had six coffins in it, with the name of the tenant 
of each, and number of his company, marked in red chalk on 
the smallest end! 

“ I say, Snowdrop,” said the sergeant, “ how do you come 
to have only five bodies, when Cucumbershin there has six ? ” 

“ To be sure I hab no more as five, and weigh enough too. 
You no see Corporal Bumblechops dere? You knows how big 
he was.” 

“ Well, but where is Sergeant Heavy stern ? why did you not 
fetch him away with the others ? ” 

The negro answered doggedly, “ Massa Sergeant, you 
should remember dem no die of consumption — cough you call 
him — nor fever and ague, nor any ting dat waste dem — for 
tree day gone — no more — all were mount guard — tout and 
fat; so as for Sergeant Heavystern, him left in de dead-house 
at de hospital.” 

“ I guessed as much, you dingy tief,” said the sergeant, 
“ but I will break your bones, if you don’t give me a sufficing 


2 1 8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


rason why you left him.” And he approached Snowdrop, with 
his cane raised in act to strike. 

“ Top, massa,” shouted the negro ; “ me will tell you — Dr 
Piaget desire dat Heavystern should be leave.” 

“ Confound Dr Piaget ” — and he smote the pioneer across 
the pate, whereby he broke his stick, although, as I antici- 
pated, without much hurting his man — but the sergeant in- 
stantly saw his error, and with the piece of the baton he gave 
Snowdrop a tap on the shin-bone, that set him pirouetting 
on one leg, with the other in his hand, like a tee-totum. 

“ Why, sir, did you not bring as many as Cucumbershin, 
sir ? ” 

“ Because ” — screamed Snowdrop in great wrath, now all 
alive and kicking from the smart — “ Because Cucumbershin 
is loaded wid light infantry, sir, and all of mine are grena- 
dier, Massa Sergeant — dat dem good reason surely ! ” 

“ No, it is not, sir; go back and fetch Heavystern immedi- 
ately, or by the powers but I will ” 

“Massa Sergeant, you must be mad — Dr Piaget — you 
won’t yeerie — but him say, five grenadier — especially wid 
Corporal Bumblechop for one — is good load — ay, wery tif 
load — equal to seven tallion company [battalion, I presume] 
and more better load, great deal, den six light infantry — be- 
side him say, tell Sergeant Pivot to send you back at five 
in de afternoon wid four more coffin, by which time he would 
have anoder load, and in trute de load was ready prepare in 
de dead-house before > I come away, only dem were not well 
cold just yet.” 

I was mightily shocked at all this — but my chum took it 
very coolly. He slightly raised one side of his mouth, and, 
giving a knowing wink with his eye, lighted a fresh cigar, 
and continued to puff away with all the composure in the 
world. 

At length the forenoon wore away, and the bugles sounded 
for dinner, when we adjourned to the mess-room. It was a 
very large and handsome saloon, standing alone in the lawn, 
and quite detached from all the other buildings, but the cur- 
tailed dimensions of the table in the middle of it, and the 
ominous crowding together of the regimental plate, like a 
show-table in Bundle and Bridge’s back shop, gave startling 
proofs of the ravages of the “ pestilence that walketh in dark- 
ness, and the destruction that wasteth at noon-day ; ” for al- 
though the whole regiment was in barracks, there were only 
nine covers laid, one of which was for me. The lieutenant- 
colonel, the major, and, I believe, fifteen other officers, had 
already been gathered to their fathers, within four months 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


219 


from the day on which the regiment landed from the trans- 
ports. Their warfare was o’er, and they slept well. At the 
first, when the insidious disease began to creep on apace, and 
to evince its deadly virulence, all was dismay and anxiety — 
downright, slavish, unmanly fear, even amongst case-hard- 
ened veterans, who had weathered the whole Peninsular war, 
and finished off with Waterloo. The next week passed over — 
the mortality increasing, but the dismay decreasing — and so 
it wore on, until it reached its horrible climax, at the time I 
speak of, by which period there was absolutely no dread at all. 

A reckless gaiety had succeeded — not the screwing up of 
one’s courage for the nonce, to mount a breach, or to lay an 
enemy’s frigate aboard, where the substratum of fear is 
present, although cased over by an energetic exertion of the - 
will; but an unnatural light-heartedness, for which account, 
ye philosophers, for I cannot — and this, too, amongst men 
who, although as steel in the field, yet whenever a common 
cold overtook them in quarters, or a small twinge of rheu- 
matic pain, would, under other circumstances, have caudled 
and beflanneled themselves, and bored you for your sympathy, 
at no allowance , as they say. 

The major elect, that is, the senior captain, was in the 
chair; as for the lieutenant-colonel’s vacancy, that was too 
high an aspiration for any man in the regiment. A stranger 
of rank, and interest, and money, would of course get that 
step, for the two deaths in the regimental staff made but one 
captain a major, as my neighbour on the left had feelingly 
remarked. All was fun and joviality; we had a capital din- 
ner, and no allusion whatever, direct or indirect, was made 
to the prevailing mortal epidemic, until the surgeon came in, 
about eight o’clock in the evening. 

“ Sit down, doctor,” said the president — “ take some wine ; 
can recommend the Madeira, — claret but so, so — your health.” 

The doctor bowed, and soon became as happy and merry 
as the rest; so we carried on, until about ten o’clock, when 
the lights began to waltz a little, and propagate also, and I 
found I had got enough, or, peradventure, a little more than 
enough, when the senior captain rose, and walked very com- 
posedly out of the room — but I noticed him pinch the doc- 
tor’s shoulder as he passed. 

The medico thereupon stole quietly after him; but we did 
not seem to miss either — a young sub had usurped the de- 
serted throne, and there we were all once more in full ca- 
reer, singing and bousing, and cracking bad jokes to our 
heart’s content. By-and-by, in comes the doctor once more. 

“ Doctor,” quoth young sub, “ take some wine ; can’t recom- 


220 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


mend the Madeira this time,” mimicking his predecessor very 
successfully ; “ the claret, you know, has been condemned, but 
a little hot brandy and water, eh ? ” 

The doctor once more bowed his pate, made his hot stuff, 
and volunteered a song. — After he had finished, and we had 
all hammered on the table to his honour and glory, until 
every thing danced again, as if it had been a matter of very 
trivial concern, he said, “ Sorry I was away so long ; but old 
Spatterdash has got a deuced thick skin, I can tell you — 
could scarcely get the lancet into him — I thought I should 
have had to send for a spring phleme — to tip him the veteri- 
nary, you know — and he won’t take physic: so I fear he will 
have but a poor chance.” 

Spatterdash was no other than mine host who had just va- 
cated ! 

“ What ! do you really think he is in for it ? ” said the sec- 
ond oldest captain, who sat next to me; and as he spoke he 
drew his leg from beneath the table, and, turning out his 
dexter heel, seemed to contemplate the site of the prospective 
fixed spur. 

“ I do, indeed,” quoth Dr Piaget. He died within three 
days ! 

But as I do not intend to write an essay on yellow fever, I 
will make an end, and get on shipboard as fast as I can, after 
stating one strong fact, authenticated to me by many unim- 
peachable witnesses. It is this; that this dreadful epidemic, 
or contagious fever — call it which you will — has never ap- 
peared, or been propagated, at or beyond an altitude of 3000 
feet above the level of the sea, although people seized with it 
on the hot sultry plains, and removed thither, have unques- 
tionably died. In a country like Jamaica, with a range of 
lofty mountains, far exceeding this height, intersecting the 
island through nearly its whole length, might not Gov- 
ernment, after satisfying themselves of the truth of the fact, 
improve on the hint? Might not a main-guard suffice in 
Kingston, for instance, while the regiments were in quarters 
half-way up the Liguanea Mountains, within twelve miles’ 
actual distance from the town, and within view of it, so that 
during the day, by a semaphore on the mountain, and an- 
other at the barrack of the outpost, a constant and instanta- 
neous communication could be kept up, and, if need were, by 
lights in the night? 

The admiral, for instance, had a semaphore in the sta- 
tionary flag-ship at Port Royal, which communicated with 
another at his Pen, or residence, near Kingston; and this, 
again, rattled off the information to the mountain retreat. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


221 


where he occasionally retired to careen; and it is fitting to 
state also, that in all the mountain districts of Jamaica 
which I visited, there is abundance of excellent water and 
plenty of fuel. These matters are worth consideration, one 
would think; however, allons — it is no business of Tom Crin- 
gle's. 

Speaking of telegraphing, I will relate an anecdote here, 
if you will wait until I mend my pen. I had landed at Green- 
wich wharf on duty — this was the nearest point of communi- 
cation between Port Royal and the Admiral’s Pen — where 
finding the flag-lieutenant, he drove me up in his ketureen to 
lunch. While we were regaling ourselves, the old signal-man 
came into the piazza, and with several most remarkable obei- 
sances, gave us to know that there were flags hoisted on the 
signal-mast, at the mountain settlement, of which he could 
make nothing — the uppermost was neither the interrogative, 
the affirmative, nor the negative, nor in fact any thing that 
with the book he could make sense of. 

“ Odd enough,” said the lieutenant ; “ hand me the glass,” 
and he peered away for half a minute. “ Confound me if I 
can make heads or tails of it either; there, Cringle, what do 
you think ? How do you construe it ? ” 

I took the telescope. Uppermost there was hoisted on the 
signal-mast a large table-cloth, not altogether immaculate, 
and under it a towel, as I guessed, for it was too opaque for 
bunting, and too white, although I could not affirm that it 
was fresh out of the fold either. 

“ I am puzzled,” said I, as I spied away again. Meanwhile, 
there was no acknowledgment made at our semaphore — 
“ There, down they go,” I continued — “ Why, it must be a 
mistake — Stop, here’s a new batch going up above the green 
trees — There goes the table-cloth once more, and the towel, 
and — deuce take me, if I can compare the lowermost to any 
thing but a dishclout — why, it must be a dishclout.” 

The flags, or substitutes for them, streamed another min- 
ute in the breeze, but as there was still no answer made from 
our end of the string, they were once more hauled down — We 
waited another minute — “ Why, here goes the same signal up 
again, table-cloth, towel, dishclout, and all — What the diable 
have we got here ? A red ball, two pennants under — What can 
that mean? — Ball— it is the bonnet-rouge , or I am a Dutch- 
man, with two short streamers ” — Another look — “ A red 
night-cap and a pair of stockings, by all that is portentous ! ” 
exclaimed I. 

“ Ah, I see, I see ! ” said the lieutenant, laughing — “ signal- 
man, acknowledge it.” 


222 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


It was done, and down came all the flags in a trice. It ap- 
peared, on inquiry, that the washing-cart, which ought to 
have been sent up that morning, had been forgotten ; and the 
Admiral and his secretary having ridden out, there was no 
one who could make the proper signal for it. So the old 
housekeeper took this singular method of having the cart 
despatched, and it was sent off accordingly. 

For the first week after I entered on my new office, I was 
busily engaged on board; during which time my mind was 
quite made up, that the most rising man in his Majesty’s 
service, beyond all compare, was Lieutenant Thomas Cringle, 
third of the Firebrand. During this eventful period, I never 
addressed a note to any friend on shore, or to a brother offi- 
cer, without writing in the left-hand lower corner of the en- 
velope, “ Lieutenant Cringle,” and clapping three dashing 
&c. &c. &c.’s below the party’s name for whom it was in- 
tended. 

“ Must let ’em know that an officer of my rank in the ser- 
vice knows somewhat of the courtesies of life, eh ? ” 

In about ten days, however, we had gotten the ship into 
high order and ready for sea, and now the glory and honour 
of command, like my only epaulet, that had been soaked 
while on duty in one or two showers, and afterwards regu- 
larly bronzed in the sun, began to tarnish, and lose the new 
gloss, like every thing else in this weary world. It was about 
this time, while sitting at breakfast in the gunroom one fine 
morning, with the other officers of our mess, gossiping about 
I hardly remember what, that we heard the captain’s voice on 
deck. 

“ Call the first lieutenant.” 

“ He is at breakfast, sir,” said the man, whoever he might 
have been, to whom the order was addressed. 

“Never mind then — Here, boatswain’s mate — Pipe away 
the men who were captured in the boats; tell them to clean 

themselves, and send Mr to me ” — (this was the officer 

who had been taken prisoner along with them in the first at- 
tack) — “they are. wanted in Kingston at the trial to-day. — 
Stop — tell Mr Cringle also to get ready to go in the gig.” 

The pirates, to the. amount of forty-five, had been trans- 
ferred to Kingston jail some days previously, preparatory to 
their trial, which, as above mentioned, was fixed for this day. 

We pulled cheerily up to Kingston, and, landing at the 
Wherry wharf, marched along the hot dusty streets, under 
a broiling sun, Captain Transom, the other lieutenant, and 
myself in full, puff, leading the van, followed by about four- 
teen seamen, in white straw hats, with broad black ribbons. 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 


223 


and clean white frocks and trowsers, headed by a boatswain’s 
mate, with his silver whistle hung round his neck — as re- 
spectable a tail as any Christian could desire to swing behind 
him; and, man for man, I would willingly have perilled my 
promotion upon their walloping, with no offensive weapons 
but their stretchers, the Following , claymores and all of any 
proud, disagreeable, would-be-mighty mountaineer, that ever 
turned up his supercilious, whisky-blossomed snout at Bailie 
Jarvie. On they came, square-shouldered, narrow-flanked, 
tall, strapping fellows, tumbling and rolling about the piazzas 
in knots *of three and four, until, at the corner of King 
Street, they came bolt up upon a well known, large, fat, 
brown lady, famous for her manufacture of spruce beer. 

“ Avast, avast a bit ” — sung out one of the topmen — “ let 
the nobs heave a-head, will ye, and let’s have a pull.” 

“ Here, old mother Slush,” sung out another of the cut- 
ter’s crew — “ Hand us up a dozen bottles of spruce, do you 
hear ? ” 

“ Dozen battle of pruce ! ” groaned the old woman — “ who 
sail pay me ? ” 

“ Why, do you think the Firebrands are thieves, you old 
canary, you ? ” 

“ How much, eh ? ” said the boatswain’s mate. 

“ Twelve feepennies,” quoth the matron. 

“ Oh, ah ! ” said one of the men— 1 ‘ Twelve times five is 
half a crown; there’s a dollar for you, old mother Popand- 
chokem — now give me back five shillings.” 

*‘Eigh, oh!” whined out the spruce merchant; “you dem 
rascal, who tell you dat your dollar more wort den any one 
else money — eh? How can give you back five shilling and 
keep back twelve f eepenny — eh ? ” 

The culprit, who had stood the Cocker of the company, had 
by this time gained his end, which was to draw the fat dam- 
sel a step or two from the large tub half -full of water, where 
the bottles were packed, and to engage her attention by 
stirring up her bile, or corruption, as they call it in Scot- 
land, while his messmates instantly seized the opportunity, 
and a bottle a-piece also; and, as I turned round to look for 
them, there they all were in a circle taking . the meridian 
altitude of the sun, or as if they had been taking aim at the 
pigeons on the eaves of the houses above them with Indian 
mouth-tubes. 

They then replaced the bottles m the tub, paid the woman 
more than she asked; but, by way of taking out the change, 
they chucked her stern foremost into the water amongst her 
merchandise, and then shouldered the vessel, old woman and 


224 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


all, and away they staggered with her, the empty bottles clat- 
tering together in the water, and the old lady swearing, and 
bouncing, and squattering amongst them, while Jack shouted 
to her to hold her tongue, or they would let her go by the run 
bodily. Thus they stumped in the wake of their captain, until 
he arrived at the door of the court-house, to the great enter- 
tainment of the bystanders, cutting the strings that confined 
the corks of the stone bottles as they bowled along, popping 
the spruce into each other’s faces, and the faces of the ne- 
groes, as they ran out of the stores to look at Jack in his 
frolic, and now and then taking a shot at the old woman’s 
cockernony itself, as she was held kicking and spurring high 
above their heads. 

At length the captain, who was no great way a-head, saw 
what was going on, which was the signal for doucing the 
whole affair, spruce- woman, tub, and bottles; and the party 
gathering themselves up, mustered close aboard of us, as 
grave as members of the General Assembly. 

The regular court-house of the city being under repair, the 
Admiralty Sessions were held in a large room occupied tem- 
porarily for the purpose. At one end, raised two steps above 
the level of the floor, was the bench, on which were seated 
the Judge of the Admiralty Court, supported by two post- 
captains in full uniform, who are ex-officio judges of this 
court in the colonies, one on each side. On the right, the jury, 
composed of merchants of the place, and respectable planters 
of the neighbourhood, were enclosed in a sort of box, with a 
common white pine railing separating it from the rest of the 
court. There was a long table in front of the bench, at which 
a lot of black-robed devil’s limbs of lawyers were ranged — but 
both amongst them, and on the bench, the want of the cauli- 
flower wigs was sorely felt by me, as well as by the seamen, 
who considered it little less than murder, that men in crops — 
black shock-pated fellows — should sit in judgment on their 
fellow-creatures, where life and death were in the scales. 

On the left hand of the bench, the motley public — white, 
black, and of every intermediate shade — were grouped; as 
also in front of the dock, which was large. It might have 
been made with a view to the possibility of fifteen unfortu- 
nates or so being arraigned at one time; but now there were 
no fewer than forty- three jammed and pegged together into 
it, like sheep in a Smithfield pen the evening before market- 
day. These were the forty thieves — the pirates. They were 
all, without exception, clean, well shaven, and decently rigged 
in white trowsers, linen or check shirts, and held their broad 
Panama sombreros in their hands. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


22 5 

Most of them wore the red silk sash round the waist. They 
had generally large bushy whiskers, and not a few had ear- 
rings of massive gold, (why call wearing ear-rings puppy- 
ism? — Shakespeare wore ear-rings, or the Chandos portrait 
lies,) and chains of the same metal round their necks, sup- 
porting, as I concluded, a crucifix, hid in the bosom of the 
shirt. — A Spaniard can’t murder a man comfortably, if he 
has not his crucifix about him. 

Thel were, collectively, the most daring, intrepid, Salvator 
Rosa-looking men I had ever seen. Most of them were above 
the middle size, and the spread of their shoulders, the grace 
with which their arms were hung, and finely developed mus- 
cles of the chest and neck, the latter exposed completely by 
the folding back of their shirt-collars, cut large and square, 
after the Spanish fashion, beat the finest boat’s crew we could 
muster all to nothing. Some of them were of mixed blood, 
that is, the cross betwen the European Spaniard and the abo- 
riginal Indian of Cuba, the latter a race long since sacrificed 
on the altar of Mammon, the white man’s god. 

Their hair, generally speaking, was long, and curled over 
the forehead black and glossy, or hung down to their shoul- 
ders in ringlets, that a dandy of the second Charles’s time 
would have given his little finger for. The forehead in most 
was high and broad, and of a clear olive, the nose straight, 
springing boldly from the brow, the cheeks oval, and the 
mouth — every Spaniard has a beautiful mouth, until he 
spoils it with the beastly cigar, as far as his well-formed firm 
lips can be spoiled; but his teeth he generally does destroy 
early in life. Take the whole, however, and deduct for the 
teeth, I had never seen so handsome a set of men; and I am 
sure no woman, had she been there, would have gainsayed me. 
They stood up, and looked forth upon their judges and the 
jury like brave men, desperadoes though they were. They 
were, without exception, calm and collected, as if aware that 
they had small chance of escape, but still determined not to 
give that chance away. One young man especially attracted 
my attention, from the bold, cool self-possession of his bear- 
ing. He was in the very front of the dock, and dressed in no 
way different from the rest, so far as his under garments were 
concerned, unless it were that they were of a finer quality. 
He wore a short green velvet jacket, profusely studded with 
knobs and chains, like small chain-shot, of solid gold, similar 
to the shifting button lately introduced by our dandies in 
their waistcoats. It was not put on, but hung on one shoulder, 
being fastened across his breast by the two empty sleeves tied 
together in a knot. He also wore the red silk sash, through 


226 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


which a broad gold cord ran twining like the strand of a 
rope. He had no ear-rings, but his hair was the most beauti- 
ful I had ever seen in a male — long and black, jet-black and 
glossy. It was turned up and fastened in a club on the crown 
of his head with a large pin, I should rather say skewer, of 
silver; but the outlandishness of the fashion was not of- 
fensive, when I came to take into the account the beauty of 
the plaiting, and of the long raven lovelocks that hung down 
behind each of his small transparent ears, and the short Hy- 
perion-like curls that clustered thick and richly on his high, 
pale, broad forehead. His eyes were large, black, and swim- 
ming, like a woman’s ; his nose straight and thin ; and such a 
mouth, such an under-lip, full and melting ; and teeth regular 
and white, and utterly free from the pollution of tobacco; 
and a beautifully moulded small chin, rounding off, and 
merging in his round, massive, muscular neck. 

I had never seen so fine a face, such perfection of features, 
and such a clear, dark, smooth skin. It was a finer face than 
Lord Byron’s, whom I had seen more than once, and wanted 
that hellish curl x>f the lip ; and, as to figure, he could, to 
look at him, at any time have eaten up his lordship, stoop 
and roop, to his breakfast. It was the countenance, in a 
word, of a most beautiful youth, melancholy, indeed, and 
anxious — evidently anxious ; for the large pearls that coursed 
each other down his forehead and cheek, and the slight quiv- 
ering of the under-lip, every now and then evinced the pow- 
erful struggle that was going on within. His figure was, if 
possible, superior to his face. It was not quite filled up, set, 
as we call it, but the arch of his chest was magnificent, his 
shoulders square, arms well put on; but his neck — “ Have 
you seen the Apollo, neighbour? ” — “ No, but the cast of it at 
Somerset-House.” — “ Well, that will do — so you know the 
sort of neck he had.” His waist was fine, hips beautifully 
moulded; and although his under limbs were shrouded in his 
wide trowsers, they were evidently of a piece with what was 
seen and developed ; and this was vouched for by the turn of 
his ankle and well-shaped foot, on which he wore a small 
Spanish grass slipper, fitted with great nicety. He was at 
least six feet two in height; and such as I have described 
him, there he stood, with his hands grasping the rail before 
him, and looking intently at a wigless lawyer who was open- 
ing the accusation, while he had one ear turned a little 
towards the sworn interpreter of the court, whose province it 
was, at every pause, to explain to the prisoners what the 
learned gentleman was stating. From time to time he said 
a word or two to a square-built, dark, ferocious-looking man 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


227 


standing next him, apparently about forty years of age, who, 
as well as his fellow-prisoners, appeared to pay him great re- 
spect; and I could notice the expression of their counte- 
nances change as his rose or fell. 

The indictment had been read before I came in, and, as 
already mentioned, the lawyer was proceeding with his accu- 
satory speech, and, as it appeared to me, the young Spaniard 
had some difficulty in understanding the interpreter’s expla- 
nation. Whenever he saw me, he exclaimed, “ Ah ! aqui viene, 
el Senor Teniente — ahora sabremos — ahora, ahora ; ” and he 
beckoned to me to draw near. I did so. 

“ I beg pardon, Mr Cringle,” he said in Spanish, with the 
ease and grace of a nobleman — “ but I believe the interpreter 
to be incapable, and I am certain that what I say is not fit- 
tingly explained to the judges; neither do I believe he can 
give me a sound notion of what the advocate ( avocado ) is 
alleging against us. May I entreat you to solicit the bench 
for permission to take his place? I know you will expect no 
apology for the trouble from a man in my situation.” 

This unexpected address in open court took me fairly 
aback, and I stopped short while in the act of passing the 
open space in front of the dock, which was kept clear by six 
marines in white jackets, whose muskets, fixed bayonets, and 
uniform caps, seemed out of place to my mind in a criminal 
court. The lawyer suddenly suspended his harangue, while 
the judges fixed their eyes on me, and so did the audience, 
confound them ! To be the focus of so many eyes was trying 
to my modesty; for, although I had mixed a little in the 
world, and was not altogether unacquainted with bettermost 
society, still, below any little manner that I had acquired, 
there was, and always will be, an under stratum of bashful- 
ness, or sheepishness, or mauvaise honte, call it which you 
will; and the torture, the breaking on the wheel, with which 
a man of that temperament perceives the eyes of a whole 
court-house, for instance, attracted to him, none but a bash- 
ful man can understand. At length I summoned courage to 
speak. 

“ May it please your honours, this poor fellow, on his own 
behalf, and on the part of his fellow-prisoners, complains of 
the incapacity of the sworn interpreter, and requests that I 
may be made the channel of communication in his stead.” 

This was a tremendous effort, and once more the whole 
blood of my body rushed to my cheeks and forehead, and I 

sweat extremely.” The judges, he of the black robe and 
those of the epaulet, communed together. 

“ Have you any objection to be sworn, Mr Cringle ? ” 


228 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ None in the least, provided the court considers me com- 
petent, and the accused are willing to trust to me.” 

“ Si, si ! ” exclaimed the young Spaniard, as if compre- 
hending what was going on — “ Somos contentos — todos, to- 
dos ! ” and he looked round, like a prince, on his fellow-cul- 
prits. A low murmuring, “ Si, si — contento, contento ! ” 
passed amongst the group. 

“ The accused, please your honours, are willing to trust to 
my correctness.” 

“Pray, Mr Cringle, don’t make yourself fhe advocate of 
these men, mind that,” said the lawyer sans wig. 

“ I don’t intend it, sir/’ I said, slightly stung ; “ but if you 
had suffered what I have done at their hands, peradventure 
such a caution to you would have been unnecessary.” 

The sarcasm told, I was glad to see: but remembering 
where I was, I hauled out of action with the man of words, 
simply giving the last shot, — “ I am sure no English gentle- 
man would willingly throw . any difficulty in the way of the 
poor fellows being made aware of what is given in evidence 
against them, bad as they may be.” 

He was about rejoining, for a lawyer would as soon let you 
have the last word as a sweep or a baker the wall, when the 
officer of court approached and swore me in, and the trial 
proceeded. 

The whole party were proved by fifty witnesses to have 
been taken in arms oh board of the schooners in the Cove; 
and farther, it was proved that no commission or authority 
to cruise whatsoever was found on board any of them, a 
strong proof that they were pirates. 

“ Que dice, que dice ? ” inquired the young Spaniard al- 
ready mentioned. 

I said that the court seemed to infer, and were pressing it 
on the jury, that the absence of any commission or letter of 
marque from a superior officer, or from any of the Spanish 
authorities, was strong evidence that they were marauders — 
in fact pirates. 

“ Ah ! ” he exclaimed ; “ gracias, gracias ! ” Then, with an 
agitated hand, he drew from his bosom a parchment, folded 
like the manifest of a merchant ship, and at the same mo- 
ment the gruff fierce-looking elderly man did the same, with 
another similar instrument from his own breast. 

“Here, here are the commissions — here are authorities 
from the Captain-General of Cuba. Read them.” 

I looked over them ; they were regular to all appearance ; at* 
least as there were no autographs in court of the Spanish 
Viceroy, or any of his officers, whose signatures, either real 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


229 


or forged , were affixed to tlie instruments, with which to com- 
pare them, there was a great chance, I conjectured, so far as 
I saw, that they would be acquitted : and in this case we, his 
majesty’s officers, would have been converted into the trans- 
gressing party; for if it were established that the vessels 
taken were bona fide guarda costas, we should be placed in an 
awkward predicament, in having captured them by force of 
arms, not to take into account the having violated the sanctity 
of a friendly port. 

But I could see that this unexpected production of regular 
papers by their officers had surprised the pirates themselves, 
as much as it had done me, — whether it was a heinous offence 
of mine or not to conceal this impression from the court, 
(there is some dispute about the matter to this hour between 
me and my conscience,) I cannot tell; but I was determined 
to stick scrupulously to the temporary duties of my office, 
without stating what I suspected, or even translating some 
sudden expressions overheard by me, that would have shaken 
the credibility of the documents. 

“ Commissiones, commissiones ! ” for instance, was mur- 
mured by a weatherbeaten Spaniard, with a fine bald head, 
from which two small tufts of gray hair stood out above his 
ears, and with a superb Moorish face — “ Commissiones es 
decir patentes — Si hay commissiones, el Diablo mismo las ha 
hecho ! ” 

The court was apparently nonplussed — not so the wigless 
man of law. His pea-green visage assumed a more ghastly 
hue, and the expression of his eyes became absolutely blast- 
ing. He looked altogether like a cat sure of her mouse, but 
willing to let it play in fancied joy of escaping, as he said 
softly to the Jew crier, who was perched in a high chair above 
the heads of the people, like an ugly corbie in its dirty nest — 
“ Crier, call Job Rumbletithump, mate of the Porpoise.” 

“ Job Rumbletithump, come into court ! ” 

“ Here,” quoth Job, as a stout, bluff honest-looking sailor 
rolled into the witness-box. 

“ Now, clerk of the crown, please to swear in the mate of 
the Porpoise.” It was done. “ Now, my man, you were taken 
going through the Caicos Passage in the Porpoise by pirates, 
in August last — were you not ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Turn your face to the jury, and speak up, sir. Do you 
see any of the honest men who made free with you in that 
dock, sir? Look at them, sir.” 

The mate walked up to the dock, stopped, and fixed his 
eyes intently on the young Spaniard. I stared breathlessly at 


230 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 


him also. He grows pale as death — his lip quivers — the large 
drops of sweat once more burst from his brow. I grew sick, 
sick. 

“ Yes, your honour,” said the mate. 

“ Yes— ah! ” said the devil’s limb, chuckling — “ we are get- 
ting on the trail at last. Can you swear to more than one ? ” 

“ Yes, your honour.” 

“ Yes ! ” again responded the sans wig. “ How many ? ” 

The man counted them off. “ Fifteen, sir. That young fel- 
low there is the man who cut Captain Spurtel’s throat, after 
violating his wife before his eyes.” 

“ God forgive me, is it possible ? ” gasped Thomas Cringle. 

* “ There’s a monster in human form for you, gentlemen,” 
continued devil’s limb. “ Go on, Mr Rumbletithump.” 

“ That other man next him hung me up by the heels, and 

seared me on the bare ” Here honest Job had just time to 

divert the current of his speech into a loud “ whew.” 

“ Seared you on the whew ! ” quoth the facetious lawyer, 
determined to have his jest, even in the face of forty- three 
of his fellow-creatures trembling on the brink of eternity. 
“ Explain, sir, tell the court where you were seared, and how 
you were seared, and all about your being seared.” 

J ob twisted and lolloped about, as if he was looking out for 
some opening to bolt through ; but all egress was shut up. 

“ Why, please your honour,” the eloquent blood mantling 
in his honest sunburnt cheeks ; while from my heart I pitied 
the poor fellow, for he was absolutely broiling in his bashful- 
ness — “He seared me on — on — why, please your honour, he 
seared me on — with a redhot iron ! ” 

“ Why, I guessed as much, if he seared you at all ; but where 
did he sear you? Come now,” coaxingly, “tell the court 
where and how he applied the actual cautery.” 

Job being thus driven to his wit’s end, turned and stood at 
bay. “Now I will tell you, your honour, if you will but sit 
down for n moment, and answer me one question.” 

“To be sure; why, Job, you brighten on us. There, I am 
down — now for your question.” 

“ Now, sir,” quoth Rumbletithump, imitating his tormen- 
tor’s manner much more cleverly than I expected, “ what part 
of your honour’s body touches your chair ? ” 

“ How, sir ! ” said the man of words — “ how dare you, sir, 
take such a liberty, sir ? ” while a murmuring laugh hummed 
through the court. 

“Now, sir, since you won’t answer me, sir,” said Job, ele- 
vated by his victory, while his hoarse voice roughened into a 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 231 

loud growl, “ I will answer myself. I was seared, sir, 
where ■” 

“ Silence ! ” quoth the crier, at this instant drowning the 
mate’s voice, so that I could not catch the words he used. 

“ And there you have it, sir. Put me in jail, if you like, . 
sir.” 

The murmur was bursting out into a guffaw, when the 
judge interfered. But there was no longer any attempt at 
ill-timed jesting on the part of the bar, which was but bad 
taste at the best on so solemn an occasion. 

Job continued, “ I was burnt into the very muscle until I 
told where the gold was stowed away.” 

“ Aha ! ” screamed the lawyer, forgetting his recent dis- 
comfiture in the gladness of his success. “And all the rest 
were abetting, eh ? ” 

“ The rest of the fifteen were, sir.” 

But the prosecutor, a glutton in his way, had thought he 
had bagged the whole forty-three. And so he ultimately did 
before the evening closed in, as most of the others were 
identified by other witnesses; and when they could not 
actually be sworn to, the piracies were brought home to them 
by circumstantial evidence; such, for instance, as having 
been captured on board of the craft we had taken, which again 
were identified as the very vessels which had plundered the 
merchantmen and murdered several of their crews, so that 
by six o’clock the jury had returned a verdict of Guilty — 
and I believe there never was a juster — against the whole 
of them. The finding, and sentence of death following 
thereupon, seemed not to create any strong effect upon the 
prisoners. They had all seen how the trial was going; and, 
long before this, the bitterness of death seemed to be past. 

I could hear one of our boat’s crew, who was standing be- 
hind me, say to his neighbour, “ Why, Jem, surely he is in 
joke. Why, he don’t mean to condemn them to be hanged 
seriously , without his wig, eh ? ” 

Immediately after the judgment was pronounced, which, 
both as to import, and literally, I had translated to them. 
Captain Transom, who was sitting on the bench beside his 
brother officers, nodded to me, “ I say, Mr Cringle, tell the 
coxswain to call Pearl, if you please.” 

I passed the word to one of the Firebrand’s marines, who 
was on duty, who again repeated the order to a seaman who 
was standing at the door. 

“ I say, Moses, call the clergyman.” 

Now this Pearl was no other than the seaman who pulled 
the stroke-oar in the gig; a very handsome negro, and the 


232 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


man who afterwards forked Whiffle out of the water — tall, 
powerful, and muscular, and altogether one of the best men 
in the ship. The rest of the boat’s crew, from his complexion, 
had fastened the sobriquet of the clergyman on him. 

“ Call the clergyman.” 

The superseded interpreter, who was standing near, seeing 
I took no notice, immediately traduced this literally to the 
unhappy men. A murmur rose amongst them. 

“ Que — el padre ya ! Somos en Capilla entonces — poco 
tiempo, poco tiempo ! ” 

They had thought that the clergyman having been sent 
for, #the sentence was immediately to be executed, but I un- 
deceived them; and in ten minutes after they were con- 
demned, they were marched off under a strong escort of foot 
to the jail. 

I must make a long story short. Two days afterwards, I 
was ordered with the launch to Kingston, early in the morn- 
ing, to receive twenty-five of the pirates who had been 
ordered for execution that morning at Gallows Point. It 
was little past four in the morning when we arrived at the 
Wherry wharf, where they were already clustered, with their 
hands pinioned behind their backs, silent and sad, but all 
of them calm, and evincing no unmanly fear of death. 

I don’t know if other people have noticed it, but this 
was one of several instances where I have seen foreigners — 
Frenchmen, Italians, and Spaniards, for instance — meet 
death, inevitable death, with greater firmness than British 
soldiers or sailors. Let me explain. In the field, or grap- 
pling in mortal combat, on the blood-slippery quarterdeck 
of an enemy’s vessel, a British soldier or sailor is the bravest 
of the brave. No soldier or sailor of any other country, 
saving and excepting those damned Yankees, can stand 
against them — they would be utterly overpowered — their 
hearts would fail them — they would either be cut down — 
thrust through, or they would turn and flee. — Yet those same 
men who have turned and fled, will meet death, but it must 
be as I said, inevitable, unavoidable death, not only more 
firmly than their conquerors would do in their circumstances, 
but with an intrepidity — oh, do not call it indifference! — 
altogether astonishing. Be it their religion, or their physical 
conformation, or what it may, all I have to do with, is the 
fact, which I record as undeniable. Out of five-and-twenty 
individuals, in the present instance, not a sigh was heard, 
nor a moan, nor a querulous word. They stepped lightly 
into the boats, and seated themselves in silence. When told 
by the seamen to make room, or to shift so as not to be in the 



I HELD UP THE MINIATURE. 








\f «• 





































































. ■ 





TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


233 

way of the oars, they did so with alacrity, and almost with 
an air of civility, although they knew that within half an 
hour their earthly career must close for ever. 

The young Spaniard who had stood forward so conspicu- 
ously on the trial, was in my boat; in stepping in, he acci- 
dentally trode on my foot in passing forward; he turned and 
apologized, with much natural politeness — “ he hoped he had 
not hurt me ? ” 

I answered kindly, I presume — who could have done so 
harshly? This emboldened him apparently, for hd stopped, 
and asked leave to sit by me. I consented, while an incom- 
prehensible feeling crept over me; and when once I had 
time to recollect myself, I shrunk from him, as a blood- 
stained brute, with whom even in his extremity it was un- 
fitting for me to hold any intercourse. When he noticed 
my repugnance to remain near him, he addressed me hastily, 
as if afraid that I would destroy the opportunity he seemed 
to desire. 

“ God did not always leave me the slave of my passions,” 
he said, in a low, deep, most musical voice. “ The day has 
been when I would have shrunk as you do — but time presses. 
You have a mother f” said he — I assented — “ and an only 
sister ? ” As it happened, he was right here too. “ And — 
and” — here he hesitated, and his voice shook and trembled 
with the most intense and heart-crushing emotion — “y una 
mas cara que ambas? ” — Mary, you can tell whether in this 
he did not also speak truth. I acknowledged there was an- 
other being more dear to me than either. “ Then,” said he, 
u take this chain from my neck, and the crucifix, and a 
small miniature from my bosom; but not yet — not till I 
leave the boat. You will find an address affixed to the string 
of the latter. Your course of service may lead you to St 
Jago — if not, a brother officer may” — ITis voice became in- 
audible ; his hot scalding tears dropped fast on my hand, and 
the ravisher, the murderer, the pirate , wept as an innocent 
and helpless infant. “ You will deliver it. Promise a dying 
man — promise a great sinner.” But it was momentary — 
he quelled the passion with a fierce and savage energy, as 
he said sternly, “Promise! promise!” I did so, and I ful- 
filled it. 

The day broke. I took the jewels and miniature from his 
neck, as he led the way with the firm step of a hero, in 
ascending the long gibbet. The halters were adjusted, when 
he stepped towards the side I was on, as far as the rope 
would let him, “ Dexa me verla — dexa me verla, una vez 
mas 1 ” I held up the miniature. He looked — he glared in- 


234 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


tensely at it. “ Adios, Maria, seas feliz mi querida — feliz — 
feliz — Maria — adios — adios — Maria — Mar ” 

The rope severed thy name from his. lips, sweet girl; but 
not until also it severed his soul from his body, and sent 
him to his tremendous account — young in years, but old in 
wickedness — to answer at that tribunal, where we must all 
appear, to the God who made him, and whose gifts he had 
so fearfully abused, for thy broken heart and early death, 
amongst the other scarlet atrocities of his short but ill-spent 
life. 

The signal had been given — the lumbering flap of the 
long drop was heard, and five-and-twenty human beings 
were wavering in the sea-breeze in the agonies of death ! The 
other eighteen suffered on the same spot the week following; 
and for long after, this fearful and bloody example struck 
terror into the Cuba fishermen. 

******* 

“ Strange now, that the majority — ahem — of my beauties 
and favourites through life have been called Mary. There 
is my own Mary — un pen pasee, certainly — but deil mean 

her, for half-a-dozen lit ” “ Now, Tom Cringle, don’t 

bother with your sentimentality, but get along, do.” — “ Well, 
I will get along — but have patience, you Hottentot Venus. 
So once more we make sail.” 

Next morning, soon after gun-fire, I landed at the Wherry 
wharf in Port Royal. It was barely daylight, but, to my 
surprise, I found my friend Peregrine Whiffle seated on a 
Spanish chair, close to the edge of the wharf, smoking a 
cigar. This piece of furniture is an arm-chair, strongly 
framed with hard wood, over which, back and bottom, a 
tanned hide is stretched, which, in a hot climate, forms a 
most luxurious seat, the back tumbling out at an angle of 
45 degrees, while the skin yields to every movement, and 
does not harbour a nest of biting ants, or a litter of scorpions, 
or any other of the customary occupants of a cushion that 
has been in Jamaica for a year. 

He did not know me as I passed; but his small glimmer- 
ing red face instantly identified the worthy little old man 
to me. 

“ Good morning, Mr Whiffle — the top of the morning to 
you, sir.” 

“Hillo,” responded Peregrine — “Tom, is it you? — how 
d’ye do, man — how d’ye do ? ” and he started to his feet, and 
almost embraced me. 

Now, I had never met the said Peregrine Whiffle but twice 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


235 


in my life; once at Mr Fayall’s, and once during the few 
days I remained in Kingston, before I set out on my travels; 
but he was a warm-hearted kindly old fellow, and, from 
knowing all my friends there very intimately, he, as a matter 
of course, became equally familiar with me. 

“ Why the diable came you not to see me, man ? Have 
been here for change of air, to recruit, you know, after that 
demon, the gout, had been so perplexing me, ever since you 
came to anchor — the Firebrand, I mean — as for you, you 
have been mad one while, and philandering with those in- 
convenient white ladies the other. You’ll cure of that, my 
boy — you’ll come to the original comforts of the country 
soon, no fear ! ” 

“ Perhaps I may, perhaps not.” 

“ Oh, your cousin Mary, I forgot — fine girl, Tom — may 
do for you at home yonder,” (all Creoles speak of England 
as home, although they may never have seen it,) “ but she 
can’t make pepper-pot, nor give a dish of land-crabs as land- 
crabs should be given, nor see to the serving up of a ringtail 
pigeon, nor rub a beef-steak to the rotting turn with a 
bruised papaw, nor compose a medicated bath, nor, nor — 
oh, confound it, Tom, she will be, when you marry her, a 
cold, comfortless, motionless Creole icicle ! ” 

I let him have his swing. “ Never mind her then, never 
mind her, my dear sir; but time passes and I must be off; 
I must, indeed, so good morning; I wish you a good morn- 
ing, sir.” 

He started to his feet, and caught hold of me. “ Sha’n’t 
go, Tom, impossible — come along with me to my lodgings, 
and breakfast with me. Here, Pilfer, Pilfer,” to his black 
valet, “give me my stick, and massu* the chair, and run 
home and order breakfast — cold calipiver — our Jamaica 
salmon, you know, Tom — tea and coffee — pickled mackerel, 
eggs, and cold tongue — any thing that Mother Dingychops 
can give us ; so bolt, Pilfer, bolt ! ” 

I told him that before I came ashore I had heard the gig’s 
crew piped away, and that I therefore expected, as Jonathan 
says, that the captain would be after me immediately; so 
that I wished at all events to get away from where we were, 
as I had no desire to be caught gossiping about when my 
superior might be expected to pass. 

“ True, boy, true” — as he shackled himself to me, and. we 
began to crawl along towards the wharf-gate leading into 
the town. Captain Transom by this time had landed, and 
came up with us. 

* Massu— Lift. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


236 

“ Ah, Transom,” said Whiffle, “ glad to see you. I say, 
why won’t you allow Mr Cringle here to go over to Spanish 
Town with me for a couple of days, eh ? ” 

“ Why, I don’t remember that Mr Cringle has ever asked 
leave.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I neither did ask leave, nor have I thought 
of doing so,” said I. 

“ But I do for you,” chimed in my friend Whiffle. “ Come, 
captain, give him leave, just for two days, that’s a prime 
chap. Why, Tom, you see you have got it, so oif with you 
and come to me with your kit as soon as possible; I will 
hobble on and make the coffee and chocolate; and, Captain 
Transom, come along and breakfast with me too. No re- 
fusal, I require society. Nearly drowned yesterday, do you 
know that? Off this same cursed wharf too — just here. I 
was looking down at the small fish playing about the piles, 
precisely in this position; one of them was as bright in the 
scales as a gold fish in my old grandmother’s glass globe, and 
I had to crane over the ledge in this fashion,” suiting the 
action to the word, “ when away I went- ” 

And, to our unutterable surprise, splash went Peregrine 
Whiffle, Esquire, for the second time, and there he was shout- 
ing, and puffing, and splashing in the water. We were both 
so convulsed with laughter, that I believe he would have been 
drowned for us; but the boat-keeper of the gig, the strong 
athletic negro before mentioned, promptly jumped on the 
wharf with his boat-hook, and caught the dapper little old 
beau by the waistband of his breeches, swaying him up, 
frightened enough, with his little coat skirts fluttering in 
the breeze, and no wonder, but not much the worse for 
it all. 

“ Diable porte V amour/' whispered Captain Transom. 

“Swallowed a Scotch pint of salt water to a certainty — 
run, Pilfer, bring me some brandy — gout will be into my 
stomach, sure as fate — feel him now — run, Pilfer, run, or 
gout will beat you — a dead heat that will be ! ” And he 
heckled at his small joke very complacently. 

We had him carried by our people to his lodgings, where, 
after shifting and brandying to some tune, he took his place 
at the breakfast-table, and did the honours with his usual 
amenity and warmheartedness. 

After breakfast, Peregrine remembered, what the sly rogue 
had never forgotten I suspect, that he was engaged to dine 
with his friend, Mr Pepperpot Wagtail, in Kingston. 

“But it don’t signify, Wagtail will be delighted to see 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


237 


you, Tom — hospitable fellow. Wagtail — and now I recol- 
lect myself, Fyall and Aaron Bang are to be there; dang it, 
were it not for the gout, we should have a night 011’t ! ” 

After breakfast, we started in a canoe for Kingston, touch- 
ing at the Firebrand for my kit.' 

Moses Yerk, the unpoetical first lieutenant, was standing 
well forward on the quarterdeck as I passed over the 
side to get into the canoe, with the gunroom steward follow- 
ing me, carrying my kit under his arm. 

“ I say, Tom, good for you, one lark after another.” 

“ Don’t like that fellow,” quoth Whiffle ; “ he is quarrel- 
some in his drink for a thousand; I know it by the cut of 
his jib.” 

He had better have held his tongue, honest man ; for as 
he looked up broad in Yerk’s face, who was leaning over the 
hammocks, the scupper immediately over head, through 
whose instrumentality I never knew, was suddenly cleared, 
and a rush of dirty water, that had been lodged there since 
the decks had been washed down at day-dawn, splashed 
slapdash over his head and shoulders and into his mouth, so 
as to set the dear little man a-coughing so violently, that I 
thought he would have been throttled. Before he had re- 
covered sufficiently to find his tongue, we had pulled fifty 
yards from the ship, and a little farther on we overtook the 
captain, who had preceded us in the cutter, into which we 
transhipped ourselves. But Whiffle never could acquit Yerk 
of having been, directly or indirectly, the cause of his suffer- 
ing from the impure shower. 

This day was the first of the Negro Carnival, or Christ- 
mas holydays, and at the distance of two miles from King- 
ston the sound of the negro drums and horns, the barbarous 
music and yelling of the different African tribes, and the 
more mellow singing of the Set Girls, came off upon the 
breeze loud and strong. 

When we got nearer, the wharfs and different streets, as 
we successfully opened them, were crowded with blacka- 
moors, men, women, and children, dancing and singing and 
shouting, and all rigged out in their best. When we landed 
on the agents’ wharf, we were immediately surrounded by a 
group of these merry-makers, which happened to be the 
Butchers’ John Canoe party, and a curious exhibition it un- 
questionably was. The prominent character was, as usual, 
the John Canoe, or Jack Pudding. He was a light, active, 
clean-made young Creole negro, without shoes or stockings, 
he wore a pair of light jean small-clothes, all too wide, but 
confined at the knees, below and above, by bands of red 


238 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


tape, after the manner that Malvolio would have called cross- 
gartering. He wore a splendid blue velvet waistcoat, with 
old-fashioned flaps coming down over his hips, and covered 
with tarnished embroidery. His shirt was absent on leave, 
I suppose, but at the wrists of his coat he had tin or white 
iron frills, with loose pieces attached, which tinkled as he 
moved, and set off the dingy paws that were stuck through 
these strange manacles, like black wax tapers in silver 
candlesticks. His coat was an old blue artillery uniform one, 
with a small bell hung to the extreme points of the swallow- 
tailed skirts, and three tarnished epaulets; one on each 
shoulder, and, O ye immortal gods ! O Mars armipotent ! the 
biggest of the three stuck at his rump, the point d’appui for 
a sheep’s tail. He had an enormous cocked hat on, to which 
was appended in front a white false-face or mask, of a most 
methodistical expression, while, Janus-like, there was an- 
other face behind, of the most quizzical description, a sort 
of living Antithesis, both being garnished and overtopped 
with one coarse wig, made of the hair of bullocks’ tails, on 
which the chapeau was strapped down with a broad band of 
gold lace. 

He skipped up to us with a white wand in one hand and 
a dirty handkerchief in the other, and with sundry moppings 
and mowings, first wiping my shoes with his mouchoir , then 
my face, (murder, what a flavour of salt fish and onions it 
had!) he made a smart enough pirouette, and then sprung 
on the deck of the nondescript animal, that now advanced 
capering and jumping about after the most grotesque fashion 
that can be imagined. This was the signal for the music to 
begin. The performers were two gigantic men, dressed in 
calf -skins entire, head, four legs, and tail. The skin of the 
head was made to fit like a hood, the two fore-feet hung 
dangling down in front, one over each shoulder, while the 
other two legs, or hind-feet, and the tail, trailed behind on 
the ground; deuce another article had they on in the shape 
of clothing except a handkerchief, of some flaming pattern, 
tied round the waist. There were also two flute-players in 
sheep-skins, looking still more outlandish, from the horng 
on the animals’ heads being preserved: and three stout fel- 
lows, who were dressed in the common white frock and trows- 
ers, who kept sounding on bullocks’ horns. These formed 
the band, as it were, and might be considered J ohn’s im- 
mediate tail or following; but he was also accompanied by 
about fifty of the butcher negroes, all neatly dressed — blue 
jackets, white shirts, and Osnaburgh trowsers, with their 
steels and knife-cases by their sides, as bright as Turkish 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


239 


yataghans, and they all wore clean blue and white striped 
aprons. I could see and tell what they were; but the Thing 
John Canoe had perched himself upon I could make nothing 
of. At length I began to comprehend the device. 

The Magnus Apollo of the party, the poet and chief musi- 
cian, the nondescript already mentioned, was no less than 
the boatswain of the butcher gang, answering to the driver 
in an agricultural one. He was clothed in an entire bullock’s 
hide, horns, tail, and the other particulars, the whole of the 
skull being retained, and the effect of the voice growling 
through the jaws of the beast was most startling. His legs 
were enveloped in the skin of the hind-legs, while the arms 
were cased in that of the fore, the hands protruding a little 
above the hoofs, and, as he walked, reared upon his hind- 
legs, he used, in order to support the load of the John Canoe, 
who had perched on his shoulders, like a monkey on a dancing 
bear, a strong stick, or sprit, with a crutch top to it, which 
he leant his breast on every now and then. 

After the creature, which I will call the Device for short- 
ness, had capered with its extra load, as if it had been a 
feather, for a minute or two, it came to a stand-still, and, 
sticking the end of the sprit into the ground, and tucking 
the crutch of it under his chin, it motioned to one of the 
attendants, who thereupon handed, of all things in the world, 
a fiddle to the ox. He then shook off the John Canoe, who 
began to caper about as before, while the Device set up a 
deuced good pipe, and sung and played, barbarously enough, 
I will admit, to the tune of Guinea Corn, the following 
ditty : — 

“ Massa Buccra lob for see 
Bullock caper like monkee— 

Dance, and shump, and poke him toe, 

Like one humane person— just so.” 

And hereupon the tail of the beast, some fifty strong, music 
men, John Canoe and all, began to rampauge about, : as if 
they had been possessed by a devil whose name was Legion : — 

“ But Massa Buccra have white love. 

Soft and silken like one dove. 

To brown girl— him barely shivel— 

To black girl— oh, Lord, de Devil ! ” 

Then a tremendous gallopading, in the which Tailtackle was 
nearly capsized over the wharf. He looked quietly over the 
edge of it. 

“ Boat-keeper, hand me up that switch of a stretcher.” 


240 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


(Friend, if tliou be’st not nautical, thou knowest what a 
rack-pin, something of the stoutest, is.) 

The boy did so, and Tailtackle, after moistening well his 
dexter claw with tobacco juice, seized the stick with his left 
by the middle, and balancing it for a second or two, he began 
to fasten the end of it into his right fist, as if he had been 
screwing a bolt into a socket. Having satisfied himself that 
his grip was secure, he let go the hold with his left hand, and 
crossed his arms on his breast, with the weapon projecting 
over his left shoulder, like the drone of a bagpipe. 

The Device continued his chant, giving the seaman a wide 
berth, however: — 

“ But when him once two tree year here. 

Him tink white lady wery great boder ; 

De colour’d peoples, never fear. 

Ah, him lob him de morest nor any oder.” 

Then another tumblification of the whole party. 

“ But, top— one time bad fever catch him. 

Colour’d peoples kindly watch him— 

In sick-room, nurse voice like music— 

From him hand taste sweet de physic.” 

Another trampoline. 

“ So alway come — in two tree year. 

And so wid you, massa— never fear ; 

Brown girl for cook — for wife— for nurse ; 

Buccra lady— poo— no wort a curse.” 

“ Get away, you scandalous scoundrel,” cried I ; “ away 
with you, sir ! ” 

Here the morriee-dancers began to circle round old Tail- 
tackle, keeping him on the move, spinning round like a 
weathercock in a whirlwind, while they shouted, “ Oh, massa, 
one macaroni ,* if you please.” To get quit of their impor- 
tunity, Captain Transom gave them one. “ Ah, good massa, 
tank you, sweet massa!” And away danced John Canoe 
and his tail, careering up the street. 

In the same way, all the other crafts and trades had their 
Gumbi-men, Horn-blowers, John Canoes, and Nondescript. 
The Gardeners came nearest of any thing I had seen before 
to the May-day boys in London, with this advantage, that 
their Jack-in-the-Green was incomparably more beautiful, 
from the superior bloom of the larger flowers used in com- 
posing it. 


* A quarter dollar. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


241 


The very work-house people, whose province it is to guard 
the Negro culprits who may be committed to it, and to in- 
dict punishment on them, when required, had their John 
Canoe and Device; and their prime jest seemed to be, every 
now and then, to throw the fellow down who enacted the 
latter at the corner of the street, and to administer a sound 
dogging to him. The John Canoe, who was the work-house 
driver, was dressed up in a lawyer’s cast-off gown and bands, 
black silk breeches, no stockings nor shoes, but with sandals 
of bullock’s hide strapped on his great splay feet, a small 
cocked hat on his head, to which were appended a large 
caulidower wig, and the usual white false-face, bearing a 

very laughable resemblance to Chief- Justice S , with 

whom I happened to be personally, acquainted. 

The whole party which accompanied these two worthies, 
musicians and tail, were dressed out so as to give a tolerable 
resemblance of the Bar broke loose, and they were all pretty 
considerably well drunk. As we passed along, the Device 
was once more laid down, and we could notice a shield of 
tough hide strapped over the fellow’s stern frame, so as to 
save the lashes of the cat, which John Canoe was adminis- 
tering with all his force, while the Device walloped about and 
yelled, as if he had been receiving the punishment on his 
naked desh. Presently, as he rolled over and over in the 
sand, bellowing to the life, I noticed the leather shield slip 
upwards to the small of his back, leaving the lower story 
uncovered in reality; but the driver and his tail were too 
drunk to observe this, and the former continued to lay on 
and laugh, while one of his people stood by in all the 
gravity of drunkenness, counting, as a drst lieutenant does, 
when a poor fellow is polishing at the gangway, — “ Twenty 
— twenty-one — twenty-two” — and so on, while the patient 
roared you, an it were any thing but a nightingale. At 
length he broke away from the . men who held him, after 
receiving a most sufficient dogging, to revenge which he im- 
mediately fastened on the John Canoe, wrenched his cat 
from him, and employed it so scientidcally on him and his 
followers, giving them passing taps on the shins now and 
then with the handle, by way of spice to the dose, that the 
whole crew pulled foot as if Old Nick had held them in 
chase. 

The very children, urchins of dve and six years old, had 
their Lilliputian John Canoes and Devices. But the beauti- 
ful part of the exhibition was the Set Girls. They danced 
along the streets, in bands of from dfteen to thirty. There 
were brown sets, and black sets, and sets of all the inter- 


242 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


mediate gradations of colour. Each set was dressed pin for 
pin alike, and carried umbrellas or parasols of the same 
colour and size, held over their nice snowy, well put on 
toques , or Madras handkerchiefs, all of the same pattern, 
tied round their heads, fresh out of the fold. They sang, as 
they swam along the streets in the most luxurious attitudes. 
I had never seen more beautiful creatures than there were 
amongst the brown sets — clear olive complexions, and fine 
faces, elegant carriages, splendid figures, — full, plump, and 
magnificent. 

Most of the sets were as much of a size as Lord ’s 

eighteen daughters, sailing down Regent Street; like a 
Charity School of a Sunday, led by a rum-looking old beadle 
— others, again, had large Roman matron-looking women 
in the leading files, the -figurantes in their tails becoming 
slighter and smaller, as they tapered away, until they ended 
in leetle picaniny , no bigger as my thumb , but always preserv- 
ing the uniformity of dress, and colour of the umbrella or 
parasol. Sometimes the breeze, on opening a corner, would 
strike the sternmost of a set composed in this manner of 
small fry, and stagger the little things, getting beneath their 
tiny umbrellas, and fairly blowing them out of the line, and 
ruffling their ribbons and finery, as if they had been tulips 
bending and shaking their leaves before it. But the colours 
were never blended in the same set — no blackie ever inter- 
loped with the browns, nor did the browns in any case mix 
with the sables — always keeping in mind, — black woman — 
brown lady. 

But, as if the whole city had been tom-fooling, a loud 
burst of military music was now heard, and the north end of 
the street we were ascending, which leads out of the Place 
d’ Armes, or parade, that occupies the centre of the town, was 
filled with a cloud of dust, that rose as high as the house tops, 
through which the head of a column of troops sparkled, 
swords, and bayonets, and gay uniforms glancing in the 
sun. This was the Kingston regiment marching down to the 
Court-house in the lower part of the town, to mount the 
Christmas guards, which is always carefully attended to, in 
case any of the John Canoes should take a small fancy to 
burn or pillage the town, or to rise and cut the throats of 
their masters, or any little innocent recreation of the kind, 
out of compliment to Dr Lushington, or Messrs Macaulay 
and Babington. 

First came a tolerably good band, a little too drummy, but 
still not amiss — well dressed, only the performers being of 
all colours, from white, down to jet-black, had a curious 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


243 


hodge-podge, or piebald appearance. Then came a dozen 
mounted officers at the very least — colonels-in-chief, and 
colonels, and lieutenant-colonels, and majors — all very fine, 
and very bad horsemen. Then the grenadier company, com- 
posed of white clerks of the place, very fine-looking young 
men indeed — another white company followed, not quite so 
smart-looking — then came a century of the children of Is- 
rael, not over military in appearance; the days of Joshua, 
the son of Nun, had passed away, the glory had long de- 
parted from their house — a phalanx of light browns suc- 
ceeded, then a company of dark browns, or mulattoes; the 
regular half-and-half in this, as well as in grog, is the best 
mixture after all — then quashie himself, or a company of 
free blacks, who, with the browns, seemed the best soldiers 
of the set, excepting the flank companies — and after blackie 
the battalion again gradually whitened away, until it ended 
in a very fine light company of buccras, smart young fellows 
as need be, — all the officers were white, and all the soldiers, 
whatever their cast or colour, free of course. Another bat- 
talion succeeded, composed in the same way, and really I 
was agreeably surprised to find the indigenous force of the 
colony so efficient. I had never seen any thing more soldier- 
like amongst our volunteers at home. Presently a halt was 
called, and a mounted officer, evidently desirous of shewing 
off, galloped up to where we were standing, and began to 
swear at the drivers of the waggon, with a long team of six- 
teen bullocks, who had placed their vehicle, whether inten- 
tionally or not I could not tell, directly across the street, 
where, being met by another waggon of the same kind, com- 
ing through the opposite lane, a regular jam had taken place, 
as they had contrived, being redolent of new rum, to lock 
their wheels, and twist their lines of bullocks together, in 
much admired confusion. 

“ Out of the way, sir, out of the way, you black rascals — 
don’t you see the regiment coming ? ” 

The men spanked their long whips, and shouted to the 
steers by name — “ Back, back — Caesar — Antony — Crab, back, 
sir, back ; ” and they whistled loud and long, but Caesar and 
the rest only became more and more involved. 

u Order arms,” roared another officer, fairly beaten by the 
bullocks and waggons — “ Stand at ease.” 

On this last signal, a whole cloud of spruce-beer sellers 
started fiercely from under the piazzas. 

“ An insurrection of the slave population, mayhap,” 
thought I, but their object was a very peaceable one — for 
presently, I verily believe, every man and officer in the regi- 


244 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ment had a tumbler of this, to me, most delicious beverage 
at his head; the drawing of the corks was more like street- 
tiring than any thing else — a regular feu de foie. In the 
meantime, a council of war seemed to be holden by the 
mounted officers, as to how the obstacle in front was to be 
overcome; but at this moment confusion became worse con- 
founded, by the approach of what I concluded to be the 
white man’s John Canoe party, mounted, by way of pre- 
eminence. First came a trumpeter, John Canoe with a black 
face, which was all in rule, as his black counterparts wore 
white ones; but his Device , a curious little old man, dressed 
in a sort of blue uniform, and mounted on the skeleton, or 
ghost, of a gig-horse, I could make nothing of. It carried a 
drawn sword in his hand, with which it made various flour- 
ishes, at each one of which I trembled for its Rosinante’s 
ears. The Device was followed by about fifty other odd- 
looking creatures, all on horseback; but they had no more 
seat than so many pairs of tongues, which in truth they 
greatly resembled, and made no show, and less fun. So we 
were wishing them out of the way, when some one whispered 
that the Kingston Light Horse mustered strong this morn- 
ing. I found afterwards that every man who kept a good 
horse, or could ride, invariably served in the foot — all free 
persons must join some corps or other; so that the troop, as 
it was called, was composed exclusively of those who could 
not ride, and who kept no saddle-horses. 

The line was now formed, and after a variety of cumbrous 
manoeuvres out of Dundas, sixteen at the least, the regiment 
was countermarched, and filed along another street, where 
they gave three cheers, in honour of their having had a drink 
of spruce, and of having circumvented the bullocks and 
waggons. A little farther on we encountered four beautiful 
nine-pounder field-pieces, each lumbering along, drawn by 
half a dozen mules, and accompanied by three or four ne- 
groes, but with no escort whatsoever. 

“ I say, quashie, where are all the bombardiers, the artillery- 
men ? ” 

“ Oh, massa, dem all gone to drink pruce ” 

“ What, more spruce ! — spruce — nothing but spruce ! ” 
quoth I. 

“Oh, yes, massa — after dem drink pruce done, dem all 
go to him breakfast, massa — left we for take de gun to de 
barrack — Beg one feepenny, massa,” — as the price of the 
information, 1 suppose. 

“Are the guns loaded?” said I. 

“Me no sabe, massa — top, I shall see.” And the fellow 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


245 


to whom I addressed myself stepped forward, and began to 
squint into the muzzle of one of the field-pieces, slewing his 
head from side to side, with absurd gravity, like a magpie 
peeping into a marrow-bone. “ Him must be load— no day- 
light come troo de touch-hole — take care — make me try him.” 
And without more ado he shook out the red embers from his 
pipe right on the touch-hole of the gun, when the fragment 
of a broken tube spun up in a small jet of flame, that made 
me start and jump back. 

“ How dare you, you scoundrel ! ” said the captain. 

“ Eigh, massa, him no hax me to see if him be load — so 
I was try see. Indeed, I tink him is load after all yet.” 

He stepped forward, and entered his rammer into the can- 
non, after an unavailing attempt to blow with his blubber- 
lips through the touch-hole. 

Noticing that it did not produce the ringing sound it 
would have done in an empty gun, but went home with a soft 
thud, I sung out, “ Stand clear, sir. By Jupiter, the gun is 
loaded.” 

The negro continued to bash at it with all his might. 

Meanwhile, the fellow who was driving the mules attached 
to the field-piece, turned his head, and saw what was going 
on. In a trice he snatched up another rammer, and without 
any warning, came crack over the fellow’s cranium to whom 
we had been speaking, as hard as he could draw, making the 
instrument quiver again. 

“ Dem you, ye, ye Jericho — ah so you bash my brokefast, 
eh? You no see me tick him into de gun before we yoke de 
mule, dem, eh? — You tief you, eh?” 

“ No ! ” roared the other — “ you Walkandnyam, you hab no 
brokefast, you liard — at least I never see him.” 

“Big lie dat!”replied Walkandnyam — “look in de gun.” 

Jericho peered into it again. 

“Dere, you son of a ” (I sha’n’t say what) — “dere, 

I see de red flannin wadding over de cartridge — Your broke- 
fast! — you be hang! ” roared Jericho. 

And he made at him as if he would have eaten him alive. 

“ You be hang youshef ! ” shrieked Walkandnyam — “ and de 
red wadding be hang ! ” as he took a screw, and hooked 
out, not a cartridge, certainly, but his own nightcap, full 
of yams and salt-fish, smashed into a paste by Jericho’s ram- 
mer. 

In the frenzy of his rage, he dashed this into his oppo- 
nent’s face, and they both stripped in a second. Separating 
several yards, they levelled their heads like two telescopes on 
stands, and ran butt at each other like ram-goats, and quite 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


246 

as odoriferous, making the welkin ring again as their flint- 
hard skulls cracked together. Finding each other invulnera- 
ble in this direction, they closed, and began scrambling and 
biting and kicking, and tumbling over and over in the sand; 
while the skipper and I stood by cheering them on, and 
nearly suffocated with laughter. They never once struck 
with their closed fists I noticed; so they were not much hurt. 
It was great cry and little wool ; and at length they got tired, 
and hauled off by mutual consent, finishing off as usual with 
an appeal to us — “ Beg one feepenny, massa ! ” 

At six o’clock we drove to Mr Pepperpot Wagtail’s. The 
party was a bachelor’s one, and when we walked up the front 
steps, there was our host in person, standing to receive us at 
the door; while, on each side of him, there were five or six 
of his visiters, all sitting with their legs cocked up, their 
feet resting on a sort of surbase, above which the jealousies, 
or moveable blinds of the piuzza, were fixed. 

I was introduced to the whole party seriatim — and as each 
of the cock-legs dropped his trams, he started up, caught hold 
of my hand, and wrung it as if I had been his dearest and 
oldest friend. 

Were I to designate Jamaica as a community, I would call 
it a hand-shaking people. I have often laughed heartily 
upon seeing two cronies meeting in the streets of Kingston 
after a temporary separation; when about pistol-shot asun- 
der, both would begin to tug and rug at the right-hand glove, 
but it is frequently a mighty serious affair, in that hissing 
hot climate, to get the gauntlet off; they approach, — one, a 
smart urbane little man, who would not disgrace St James’s 
Street, being more kiln-dried and less moist in his corporeals 
than his country friend, has contrived to extract his paw, 
and holds it out in act to shake. 

“ Ah ! how do you do, Ratoon ? ” quoth the Kingston man. 

“ Quite well, Shingle,” rejoins the gloved, a stout, red- 
faced. sudoriferous, yam-fed planter, dressed in blue-white 
jean trowsers and waistcoat, with long Hessian boots drawn 
up to his knee over the former, and a span-new square- 
skirted blue coatee, with lots of clear brass buttons ; a broad- 
brimmed black silk hat, worn white at the edge of the crown 
— wearing a very small neckcloth, above which shoots up 
an enormous shirt collar, the peaks of which might serve for 
winkers to a starting horse, and carrying a large whip in his 
hand — “Quite well, my dear fellow,” while he persists in 
dragging at it — the other homo all the while standing in the 
absurd position of a finger-post. At length off comes the 
glove — piecemeal perhaps — a finger first, for instance — then 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


247 


a thumb ; at length they tackle to, and shake each other like 
the very devil — not a sober, pump-handle shake, but a regu- 
lar jiggery jiggery, as if they were trying to dislocate each 
other’s arm — and, confound them, even then they don’t let 
go — they cling like sucker-fish, and talk and wallop about, 
and throw themselves back and laugh, and then another 
jiggery jiggery. 

On horseback, this custom is conspicuously ridiculous — I 
have nearly gone into fits at beholding two men careering 
along the road at a hand gallop — each on a goodish horse, 
with his negro boy astern of him on a mule, in clean frock 
and trowsers, and smart glazed hat with broad gold band, and 
massa’s umbrella in a leathern case slung across his shoul- 
ders, and his portmanteau behind him on a mail pillion cov- 
ered with a snow-white sheep’s fleece — suddenly they pull up 
on recognizing each other, when, tucking their whips under 
their arms, or crossing them in their teeth, it may be — they 
commence the rugging and riving operation. In this case — 
Shingle’s bit of blood swerves, we may assume — Ratoon rides 
at him — Shingle fairly turns tail, and starts out at full 
speed, Ratoon thundering in his rear, with outstretched arm; 
and it does happen, I am assured, that the hot pursuit often 
continues for a mile, before the desired clapperclaw is ob- 
tained. But when two lusty planters meet on horseback, 
then indeed Greek meets Greek. They begin the interview 
by shouting to each other, while fifty yards off, pulling away 
at the gloves all the while — “ How are you, Canetop ? — glad 
to see you Canetop. How do you do, I hope” — “ How are 
you, Yamfu, my dear fellow?” their horses fretting and 
jumping all the time — and if the Jack Spaniards or gadflies 
be rife, they have, even when denuded for the shake, to spur 
at each other, more like a Knight Templar and a Saracen 
charging in mortal combat, than two men merely struggling 
to be civil; and after all they have often to get their black 
servants alongside to hold their horses, for shake they must, 
were they to break their necks in the attempt. Why they 
won’t shake hands with their gloves on, I am sure I can’t 
tell. It would be much cooler and nicer — lots of Scotchmen 
in the community too. 

This hand-shaking, however, was followed by an invitation 
to dinner from each individual in the company. I looked to 
Captain Transom, as much as to say, “ Can they mean us 
to take them at their word ? ” He nodded. 

“We are sorry, that being under orders to go to sea on 
Sunday morning, neither Mr Cringle nor myself can have 
the pleasure of accepting such kind invitations.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


248 

“ Well, when you come back, you know — one day you must 
give me." 

“ And I won’t be denied,” quoth a second. 

“ Liberty Hall, you know, so to me you must come, no cere- 
mony,” said a third — and so on. 

At length, no less a man drove up to the door, than Judge 
. When he drew up, his servant, who was sitting be- 
hind on a small projection of the ketureen, came round and 
took a parcel out of the gig, closely wrapped in a blanket — 
“ Bring that carefully in, Leonidas,” said the judge, who 
now stumped up stairs with a small saw in his hand. He 
received the parcel, and, laying it down carefully in a corner, 
he placed the saw on it, and then came up and shook hands 
with Wagtail, and made his bow very gracefully. 

“ What ! — can’t you do without your ice and sour claret 
yet?” said Wagtail. 

“ Never mind, never mind,” said the judge, and here din- 
ner being announced, we all adjourned to the dining-room, 
where a very splendid entertainment was set out, to which 
we set to, and in the end, as it will appear, did the utmost 
justice to it. 

The wines were most exquisite. Madeira, for instance, 
never can be drank in perfection any where out of the trop- 
ics. You may have the wine as good at home, although I 
doubt it, but then you have not the climate to drink it in — 
I would say the same of most of the delicate French wines — 
that is, those that will stand the voyage — Burgundy of course 
not included; but never mind, let us get along. 

All the decanters were covered with cotton bags, kept wet 
with saltpetre and water, so that the evaporation carried on 
powerfully by the stream of air that flowed across the room, 
through the open doors and windows, made the fluids quite 
as cool as was desifable to worthies sitting luxuriating with 
the thermometer at 80 or thereby; yet, from the free cur- 
rent, I was in no way made aware of this degree of heat by 
any oppressive sensation; and I found in the West Indies, 
as well as in the East, although the wind in the latter is 
more dry and parching, that a current of heated air, if it be 
moderately dry, even with the thermometer at 95 in the 
shade, is really not so enervating or oppressive as I have 
found it in the stagnating atmosphere on the sunny side of 
Pall Mall, with the mercury barely at 75. A cargo of ice 
had a little before this arrived at Kingston, and at first all 
the inhabitants who could afford it iced every thing, wine, 
water, cold meats, fruits, and the Lord knows what all, tea, 
I believe, amongst other things; (by the way, I have tried 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


249 


this, and it is a luxury of its kind;) but the regular old 
stagers, who knew what was what, and had a regard for their 
interiors, soon began to eschew the ice in every way, saving 
and excepting to cool the water they washed their thin faces 
and hands in; so we had no ice, nor did we miss it; but the 
judge had a plateful of chips on the table before him, one of 
which he every now and then popped into his long thin bell- 
glass of claret, diluting it, I should have thought, in rather 
a heathenish manner ; but n import e, he worked away, sawing 
off pieces now and then from the large lump in the blanket, 
(to save the tear and wear attending a fracture,) which was 
handed to him by his servant, so that by eleven o’clock at 
night, allowing for the water, he must have concealed his 
three bottles of pure claret, besides garnishing with a lot of 
white wines. In fine, we all carried on astonishingly, some 
good singing was given, a practical joke was tried on now 
and then by Fyall, and we continued mighty happy. As to 
the singing part of it, the landlord, with a bad voice, and 
worse ear, opened the rorytory, by volunteering a very ex- 
traordinary squeak; fortunately it was not very long, but it 
gave him a plea to screw a song out of his right-hand neigh- 
bour, who in turn acquired the same right of compelling the 
person next him to make a fool of himself ; at last it came to 
Transom, who, by the by, sung exceedingly well, but he had 
got more wine than usual, and essayed the coquette a bit. 

“ Bring the wet nightcap ! ” quoth our host. 

“ Oh, is it that you are at ? ” said Transom, and he sung 
as required ; but it was all pearls before swine, I fear. 

At last we stuck fast at Fyall. Music; there was not one 
particle in his whole composition; so the wet nightcap al- 
ready impended over him, when I sung out, “Let him tell 
a story, Mr Wagtail! Let him tell a story! ” 

“Thank you, Tom,” said Fyall; “I owe you a good turn 
for that, my boy.” 

“ Fyall’s story — Mr Fyall’s story ! ” resounded on all 
hands. Fyall, glad to escape the song and wet nightcap, in- 
stantly began. 

“Why, my friends, you all know Isaac Grimm, the Jew 
snuff -merchant and cigar-maker, in Harbour Street. Well, 
Isaac had a brother, Ezekiel by name, who carried on busi- 
ness at Curagoa; you may have heard of him too. Ezekiel 
was often down here for the purpose of laying in provisions, 
and purchasing dry goods. You all know that?’” 

“Certainly!” shouted both Captain Transom and myself 
in a breath, although we had never heard of him before. 

“Hah, I knew it! Well then, Ezekiel was very rich; he 


250 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


came down in August last, in the Pickle schooner, and, as 
bad luck would have it, he fell sick of the fever. ‘ Isaac/ 
quoth Ezekiel, ‘ I am very sheek ; I tink I shall tie. — ' ‘ Hope 
note, dear proder; you hab no vife, nor shildir; pity you 
should tie, Ezekiel. Ave you make your vill, Ezekiel?’ 
— ‘ Yesh; de vill is make. I leavish every ting to you, Isaac, 
on von condition, dat you send my pody to be bury in Cura- 
goa. I love dat place; twenty years since I left de Minories, 
all dat time I cheat dere, and tell lie dere, and lif dere hap- 
pily. Oh, you most sent my pody for its puryment to Cura- 
goa ! ’ — ‘ I will do dat, mine proder/ — ‘ Den I depart in peace, 
dear Isaac ; ’ and the Israelite was as good as his word for 
once. He did die. Isaac according to his promise, applied 
to the captains of several schooners; none of them would 
take the dead body. ‘ What shall I do ? ’ thought Isaac, ‘ de 
monish mosh not be loss/ So he straightway had Ezekiel 
(for even a Jew won’t keep long in that climate) cut up and 
packed with pickle into two barrels, marked ‘ Prime mess 
pork, Leicester, M’Call, and Co. Cork.’ He then shipped the 
same in the Fan Fan, taking bills of lading in accordance 
with the brand, deliverable to Mordecai Levi of Curagoa, to 
whom he sent the requisite instructions. The vessel sailed 
— off St Domingo she carried away a mast — tried to fetch 
Carthagena under a jury-spar — fell to leeward, and finally 
brought up at Honduras 

“ Three months after, Isaac encountered the master of the 
schooner in the streets of Kingston. ‘ Ah, mine goot cap- 
tain, how is you; you lookish tin, ave you been sheek?’ — 
‘No, Moses, I am well enough, thank you — poor a bit, but 
sound in health, thank God. You have heard of my having 
carried away the mainmast, and, after kicking about fifteen 
days on short allowance, having been obliged to bear up for 
Honduras ? ’ — ‘ I know noting of all dat/ said Isaac ; ‘ sorry 
for it, captain, very sad inteed.’ — ‘ Sad, you may say that, 
Moses. But I am honest although poor, and here is your 
bill of lading for your two barrels of provisions; “Prime 
mess,” it says, Damned tough, say I — Howsomdever, ’ pulling 
out his purse, ‘ the present value on Bogle, Jopp, and Co.’s 
, wharf is L.5, 6s. 8d. the barrel; so there are two doubloons, 
Moses, and now discharge the account on the back of the bill 
of lading, will you?’ — ‘ Vy should I take payment, captain? 
if de’ — (pork stuck in his throat, like ‘amen’ in Macbeth’s,) 

‘ if de barrel ish lost, it can’t be help — de act of God, you 
know.’ — ‘ I am an honest man, Isaac/ continued the captain, 

‘ although a poor one, and I must tell the truth — we carried 
on with our own as long as it lasted, at length we had to 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


251 

break bulk, and your two barrels being nearest the hatchway, 
why we ate them first, that’s all. Lord, what has come over 
you ? ’ Isaac grew pale as a corpse. ‘ O mine Got — mine 
poor broder, dat you ever was live, to tie in Jamaic — Oh tear, 
oh tear ! ” 

u Lid they eat the head and hands and ” 

“Hold your tongue, Tom Cringle, don’t interrupt me; you - 
did not eat them; I tell it as it was told to me. So Isaac 
Crimm,” continued Fyall, “was fairly overcome; the kindly 
feelings of his nature were at length stirred up, and as he 
turned away, he wept — blew his nose hard, like a Chaldean 
trumpet in the new moon — and while the large tears coursed 
each other down his care-worn cheeks, he exclaimed, wring- 
ing the captain’s hand, in a voice tremulous and scarcely 
audible from extreme emotion, ‘ O Isaac Grimm, Isaac 
Grimm — tid not your heart mishgive you, ven you vas com- 
mit te great plasphemy of invoish Ezekiel — flesh of your 
flesh, pone of your pone — as por — de onclean peast, I mean. 

If you hat put invoish, him ash peef, surely te earthly taber- 
nacle of him, as always sheet in de high places in te Sina- 
cogue, would never have been allow to pass troo te powels of 
te pershicuting Nazareen. Ah, mine goot captain, mine very 
tear friend — vat — vat — vat av you done wid de cask, cap- 
tain ? ’ ” 

“ Oh most lame and impotent conclusion,” sung out the 
judge, who by this time had become deucedly prosy, and all 
hands arose, as if by common consent and agreed that we 
had got enough. 

So off we started in groups. — Fyall, Captain Transom, 
Whiffle, Aaron Bang, and myself, sallied forth in a bunch, 
pretty well inclined for a lark, you may guess. There are 
no lamps in the streets of Kingston, and as all the decent 
part of the community are in their cavies by half-past nine 
in the evening, and as it was now “the witching time o’ 
night,” there was not a soul in the streets that we saw, except 
a solitary town guard now and then, lurking about some dark 
corner under the piazzas. These same streets, which were 
wide and comfortable enough in the daytime, had become 
unaccountably narrow and intricate since six o’clock in the 
evening; and, although the object of the party was to con- 
voy Captain Transom and myself to our boat at the Ord- 
nance Wharf, it struck me that we were as frequently on a 
totally different tack. 

“ I say, Cringle, my boy,” stuttered out my superior. Lieu- 
tenant and Captain being both drowned in and equalized 


252 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


by the claret — “why, Tom, Tom Cringle, you dog — don’t 
you hear your superior officer speak, sir, eh ? ” 

My superior officer, during this address, was standing with 
both arms round a pillar of the piazza. 

“ I am here, sir,” said I. 

“ Why, I know that ; but why don’t you speak when I — 
Hilloo — where’s Aaron, and Fyall, and the rest, eh?” 

They had been attracted by sounds of revelry in a splendid 
mansion in the next street, which we could see was lit up 
with great brilliancy, and had at this time shot about fifty 
yards a-head of us, working to windward, tack and tack, like 
Commodore Trunnion. 

“Ah, I see,” said Transom; “let us heave a-head, Tom 
— now, do ye hear? — stand you with your white trowsers 
against the next pillar.” — The ranges supporting the piazza 
were at distances of about twenty feet from each other. — 
“ Ah, stand there now — I see it.” — So he weighed from the 
one he had tackled to, and making a staggering bolt of it, 
ran up to the pillar against which I stood, its position being 
marked by my white vestments, where he again hooked on 
for a second or two, until I had taken up a new position. 

“ There, my boy, that’s the way to lay out a warp — right 
in the wind’s eye— Tom, we shall fairly beat those lubbers 
who are tacking in the stream — nothing like warping in 
the dead water near the shore — mark that down, Tom — 
never beat in a tide-way when you can warp up along shore 
in the dead water — Confound the judge’s ice” — (hiccup) — 
“ he has poisoned me with that piece he plopped in my last 
whitewash of Madeira. He a judge! He may be a good 
crim — criminal judge, but no judge of wine — Why don’t you 
laugh, Tom, eh? — and then his saw — the rasp of a saw I 
hate — wish it, and a whole nest more, had been in his legal 
stomach — full of old saws — Shakespeare — he, he — why don’t 
you laugh, Tom? — Poisoned by the judge, by Jupiter — Now, 
here we are fairly abreast of them — Hillo! — Fyall, what are 
you after ? ” 

“ Hush, hush,” said Fyall, with drunken gravity. 

“ And hush, hush,” said Aaron Bang. 

“ Come here, Tom, come here,” said Whiffle, in a whisper. 
We were now directly under the piazza of the fine house, in 
the first floor of which some gay scene was enacting. “ Here, 
Tom, here — now stand there — hold by that pillar there. I 
say. Transom, give me a lift.” 

“ Can’t, Whiffle, can’t, for the soul of me, Peregrine, my 
dear — but I see, I see.” 

With that the gallant captain got down on all fours; 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


253 


Whiffle, a small light man, got on his back, and, with the 
aid of Bang and Fyall, managed to scramble up on my shoul- 
ders, where he stood, holding by the window-sill, above, with 
a foot on each side of my head. His little red face was thus 
raised flush with the window-sill, so that he could see into the 
dark piazza 011 the first floor, and right through into the 
magnificent and sparkling drawing-room beyond. 

“ Now tell us what’s to be seen,” said Aaron. 

“ Stop, stop,” rejoined Whiffle — “ My eye, what a lot of 
splendid women — no men — a regular lady party — Hush! a 
song.” A harp was struck, and a symphony of Beethoven’s 
played with great taste — A song, low and melancholy, from 
two females followed. 

“ The music of the spheres ! ” quoth Whiffle. 

We were rapt — we had been inspired before — and, drunk 
as we were, there we sat or stood, as best suited us, exhibit- 
ing the strange sight of a cluster of silent tipsy men. At 
length, at one of the finest swells, I heard a curious gurgling 
sound overhead, as if some one was being gagged, and I fan- 
cied Peregrine became lighter on my shoulders — Another 
fine die-away note — I was sure of it. 

“ Bang, Bang — Fyall — He is evaporating with delight — no 
weight at all — growing more and more ethereal — lighter and 
lighter, as I am a gentleman — he is off — going, going, gone — 
exhaled into the blue heavens, by all that is wonderful ! ” 

Puzzled beyond measure, I stept hurriedly back, and cap- 
sized over the captain, who was still enacting the joint-stool 
on all-fours behind me, by which Whiffle had mounted to 
my cross-trees, and there we rolled in the sand, master and 
man. 

“Murdered, Tom Cringle — murdered — you have hogged 
me like the old Ramilies — broke my back, Tom — spoiled my 
quadrilling for ever and a day; d — n the judge’s ice, though, 
and the saw particularly.” 

“ Where is he — where is Whiffle ? ” inquired all hands, in 
a volley. 

“ The devil only knows,” said I ; “he has flown up into 
the clouds, catch him who can. He has left this earth any- 
how, that is clear.” 

“ Ha, ha ! ” cried Fyall, in great glee, who had seen him 
drawn into the window by several white figures, after they 
had tied a silk handkerchief over his mouth; “follow me 
my boys ; ” and we all scrambled after him to the front door 
of the house, to which we ascended by a handsome flight of 
marble steps, and when there, we began to thunder away -for 
admittance. The door was opened by a very respectable- 


254 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


looking elderly gentleman, with well-powdered hair, and at- 
tended by two men-servants in handsome liveries, carrying 
lights. His bearing and gentleman-like deportment had an 
immediate effect on me, and I believe on the others too. He 
knew Fyall and Whiffle, it appeared. 

“ Mr Fyall,” he said, with much gentleness, “ I know it 
is only meant as a frolic, but really I hope you will now end 
it. Amongst yourselves, gentlemen, this may be all very 
well, but considering my religion, and the slights we He- 
brews are so often exposed to, myself and my family are 
more sensitive and pervious to insult than you can well un- 
derstand.” 

“My dear fellow,” quoth Fyall, “we are all very sorry; 
the fact is, we had some bad shaddock after dinner, which 
has made us very giddy and foolish somehow. Do you know, 
I could almost fancy I had been drinking wine.” 

“ Cool and deliciously impudent that same, (hiccup,)” 
quoth the skipper. 

“ But hand us back little Whiffle,” continued Fyall, “ and 
we shall be off.” 

Here Whiffle’s voice was heard from the drawing-room. 

“Here, Fyall! — Tom Cringle! — Here, here, or I shall be 
murdered ! ” 

“ Ah ! I see,” said Mr H., “ this way, gentlemen. Come, 
I will deliver the culprit to you ; ” and we followed him into 
the drawing-room, a most magnificent saloon, at least forty 
feet by thirty, brilliantly lit up with crystal lamps, and 
massive silver candelabra, and filled with elegant furniture, 
which was reflected, along with the chandeliers that hung 
from the centre of the coach-roof, by several large mirrors, in 
rich frames, as well as in the highly polished mahogany floor. 

There, in the middle of the room, the other end of it being 
occupied by a bevy of twelve or fifteen richly-dressed females, 
visiters, as we conjectured, sat our friend, Peregrine, pin- 
ioned into a large easy-chair, with shawls and scarfs, amidst 
a sea of silk cushions, by four beautiful young women, black 
hair and eyes, clear white skins, fine figures, and little cloth- 
ing. A young Jewess is a beautiful animal, although, like 
the unclean — confound the metaphor — which they abhor — 
they don’t improve by age. 

When we entered, the blushing girls, who had been beat- 
ing Whiffle over his spindle shins, with their large garden 
fans, dashed through a side-door, unable to contain their 
laughter, which we heard long after they had vanished, echo- 
ing' through the lofty galleries of the house. Our captive 
knight being restored to us, we made our bows to the other 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


255 

ladies, who were expiring with laughter, and took our leave, 
with little Whiffle on our shoulders — the worthy Hebrew, 
whom 1 afterwards knew in London, sending his servant and 
gig with Captain Transom and myself to the wharf. There 
we tumbled ourselves into the boat, and got on board the 
Firebrand about three in the morning. We were by this 
time pretty well sobered; at four a gun was fired, the top- 
sails were let fall, and sheeted home, and top gallant sails 
set over them, the ship having previously been hove short; 
at half -past, the cable being right up and down — another 
gun — the drums and fifes beat merrily — spin flew the cap- 
stan, tramp went the men that manned it. We were under 
weigh — Eastward, ho ! — for Santiago de Cuba. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE CRUISE OF THE FIREBRAND 

Shewing , amongst other pleasant matters well worthy of being recorded how 
Thomas communed with his two Consciences. 

“ Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. 

And danced in triumph o’er the waters wide, 

The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play. 

That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? ” 

The Corsair. 

We had to beat up for three days before we could weather 
the east end of Jamaica, and tearing work we had of it. I 
had seen bad weather and heavy seas in several quarters of 
the globe — I had tumbled about under a close-reefed main- 
topsail and reefed foresail, on the long seas in the Bay of 
Biscay — I had been kicked about in a seventy-four, off the 
Cape of Good Hope, as if she had been a cork — I had been 
hove hither and thither, by the short jumble of the North 
Sea, about Heligoland, and the shoals lying oil the mouth of 
the Elbe, when every thing over head was black as thunder, 
and all beneath as white as snow — I had enjoyed the luxury 
of being torn in pieces by a north-wester, which compelled 
us to lie-to for ten days at a stretch, under storm stay-sails, 
off the coast of Yankeeland, with a clear, deep, cold, blue sky 
above us, without a cloud, where the sun shone brightly the 
whole time by day, and a glorious harvest moon by night, 
as if they were smiling in derision upon our riven and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


256 

strained ship, as she reeled to and fro like a wounded Titan; 
at one time buried in the trough of the sea, at another cast 
upwards towards the heavens by the throes of the tormented 
waters, from the troubled bosom of the bounding and roaring 
ocean, amidst hundreds of miniature rainbows, (ay, rainbows 
by night as well as by day,) in a hissing storm of white, 
foaming, seething spray, torn from the curling and rolling 
bright green crests of the mountainous billows. And I have 
had more than one narrow squeak for it in the neighbour- 
hood of the “ still vexed Bermoothes,” besides various other 
small affairs, written in this Bohe ; but the devil such an- 
other tumblification had I ever experienced — not as to dan- 
ger, for there was none except to our spars and rigging, 
but as to discomfort — as I did in that short, cross, splashing, 
and boiling sea, off Morant Point. By noon, however, on the 
second day, having had a slant from the land-wind in the 
night previous, we got well to windward of the long sandy 
spit that forms the east end of the island, and were in the 
act of getting a small pull of the weather braces, before edg- 
ing away for St Jago, when the wind fell suddenly, and in 
half an hour it; was stark calm — “ una furiosa calma,” as the 
Spanish sailors quaintly enough call it. 

We got rolling tackles up, and the topgallant-masts down, 
and studding-sails out of the tops, and lessened the lumber 
and weight aloft in every way we could think of, but, never- 
theless, we continued to roll gunwale under, dipping the 
main-yardarm into the water every now and then, and set- 
ting every thing adrift, below and on deck, that was not 
bolted down, or otherwise well secured. 

When I went down to dinner, the scene was extremely 
good. Old Yerk, the first lieutenant, was in the chair — one 
of the boys was jammed at his side, with his claws fastened 
round the foot of the table, holding a tureen of boiling pease- 
soup, with lumps of pork swimming in it, which the afore- 
said Yerk was baling forth with great assiduity to his mess- 
mates. Hydrostatics were much in vogue — the tendency of 
fluids to regain their equilibrium (confound them, they have 
often in the shape of claret destroyed mine) was beautifully 
illustrated, as the contents of each carefully balanced soup- 
plate kept swaying about on the principle of the spirit level. 
The doctor was croupier, and as it was a return dinner to the 
captain, all hands were regularly figged out, the lieutenants, 
with their epaulets and best coats, and the master, purser, 
and doctor, all fittingly attired. When I first entered, as I 
made my obeisance to the captain, I thought I saw an empty 
seat next him, but the matter of the soup was rather an 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


257 


engrossing concern, and took up my attention, so that I paid 
no particular regard to the circumstance; however, when we 
had all discussed the same, and were drinking our first glass 
of Tenerifie, I raised my eyes to hob and nob with the mas- 
ter, when — ye gods and little fishes — who should they light 
on, but the merry phiz — merry, alas! no more — of Aaron 
Bang, Esquire, who, during the soup interlude, had slid into 
the vacant chair unperceived by me. 

“ Why, Mr Bang, where, in the name of all that is comical, 
where have you dropped from ? ” Alas ! poor Aaron — Aaron 
in a rolling sea was of no kindred to Aaron ashore. His rosy 
gills were no longer rosy — his round plump face seemed to 
be covered with parchment from an old bass-drum, cut out 
from the centre where most bronzed by the drum-stick — 
there was no speculation in his eyes that he did glare withal 
— and his lips, which were usually firm and open, disclosing 
his nice teeth, in frequent grin, were held together, as if he 
had been in grievous pain. At length he did venture to open 
them — and, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, “ it lifted up 
its head and did address itself to motion, as it would speak.” 
But they began to quiver, and he once more screwed them 
together, as if he feared the very exertion of uttering a word 
or two might unsettle his moniplies. 

The master was an odd garrulous small man, who had a 
certain number of stated jokes, which, so long as they were 
endured, he unmercifully inflicted on his messmates. I had 
come in for my share, as a new comer, as well as the rest; 
but even with me, although I had been but recently ap- 
pointed, they had already begun to pall, and wax wearisome; 
and blind as the beetle of a body was, he could not help see- 
ing this. So poor Bang, unable to return a shot, sea-sick 
and crest-fallen, offered a target that he could not resist 
taking aim at. Dinner was half over, and Bang had not 
eaten any thing, when, unseasonable as the hour was, the 
little pot-valiant master, primed with two tumblers of grog, 
in defiance of the captain’s presence, fairly fastened on him, 
like a remora, and pinned him down with one of his long- 
winded stories about Captain David Jones, in the Phantome, 
during a cruise off Cape Flyaway, having run foul of a 
whale, and thereby nearly foundered; and that at length 
having got the master harpooned and speared, and the devil 
knows what, but it ended in getting her alongside, when they 
scuttled the leviathan, and then, wonderful to relate, they 
found a Greenlandman, with royal yards crossed, in her maw, 
and the captain and mate in the cabin quarrelling about the 
reckoning. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


258 

“ What do you think of that, Mr Bang — as well they might 
be, Mr Bang — as well they might be ? ” Bang said nothing, 
but at the moment — whether the said Aaron lent wings to 
the bird or no I cannot tell — a goose, swimming in apple 
sauce, which he was, with a most stern countenance, endeav- 
ouring to serve, fetched way right over the gunwale of the 
dish; and taking a whole boat of melted butter with it, 
splashed across the table during a tremendous roll, that made 
! every thing creak and groan again, right into the small mas- 
ter’s lap, who was his vis-a-vis. I could hear Aaron grumble 
out something about — “ Strange affinity — birds of a feather.” 
But his time was up, his minutes were numbered, and like a 
shot he bolted from the table, sculling or rather clawing 
away towards the door, by the backs of the chairs, like a 
green parrot, until he reached the marine at the bottom of 
the ladder, at the door of the captain’s cabin, round whose 
neck he immediately fetterlocked his fins. 

He had only time to explain to his new ally, “ My dear 
fellow, get me some brandy and water, for the love of mercy ” 
— when he blew up, with an explosion like the bursting of a 
steam-boiler — “ Oh dear, oh dear,” we could hear him mur- 
muring in the lulls of his agony — then another loud report — 
“ there goes my yesterday’s supper — hot grog and toasted 
cheese ” — another roar, as if the spirit was leaving its earthly 
tabernacle — “ dinner, claret, Madeira — all cruel bad in a 
second edition — cheese, teal, and ringtail pigeon — black crabs 
— calapi and turtle soup ” — as his fleshly indulgences of the 
previous day rose up in judgment against him, like a man’s 
evil deeds on his death-bed. At length the various strata 
of his interior were entirely excavated — “ Ah ! — I have got 
to my breakfast — to the simple tea and toast at last. Brandy 
and water, my dear Transom, brandy and water, my darling, 
hot, without sugar ” — and “ Brandy and water ” died in 
echoes in the distance as he was stowed away into his cot in 
the captain’s cabin. It seems that it had been all arranged 
between him and Captain Transom, that he was to set off 
for St Thomas in the East, the morning on which we sailed, 
and to get a shove out in the pilot-boat schooner, from Mo- 
rant Bay, to join us for the cruise; and accordingly he had 
come on board the night previous when I was below, and 
being somewhat qualmish he had wisely kept his cot; the 
fun of the thing depending, as it seemed, on all hands care- 
fully keeping it from me that he was on board. 

I apprehend most people indulge in the fancy that they 
have Consciences — such as they are. I myself now — even I 
Thomas Cringle, Esquire, amongst sundry vain imaginings’ 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


259 


conceive that I have a conscience — somewhat of the caout- 
chouc order I will confess — stretching a little upon occasion, 
when the gale of my passions blows high — nevertheless a 
nighly respectable conscience, as things go — a stalwart un- 
chancy customer, who will not be gainsaid or contradicted; 
but he may be disobeyed, although never with impunity. 
It is all true that a young, well-fledged gentlewoman, for she 
is furnished with a most swift pair of wings, called Pros- 
perity, sometimes gets the better of Master Conscience, and 
smothers the Grim Feature for a time, under the bed of 
eider down, whereon you and her ladyship are reposing. But 
she is a sad jilt in many instances, this same Prosperity; for 
some fine morning, with the sun glancing in through the 
crevices of the window-shutters, just at the nick when, after 
turning yourself, and rubbing your eyes, you courageously 
thrust forth one leg, with a determination to don your gra- 
mashes without more delay, — “ Tom,” says she, “ Tom Crin- 
gle, I have got tired of you, Thomas; besides, I hear my 
next door neighbour. Madam Adversity, tirling at the door 
pin; so give me my down-bed, Tom, and I J m off.” With that 
she bangs open the window, and before I recover from my 
surprise, launches forth, with a loud whir, mattrass and all, 
leaving me, Pilgarlic, lying on the paillasse. Well, her nest 
is scarcely cold, when in comes me Mistress Adversity, a 
wee outspoken, sour, crabbit, gizzened anatomy of an old 
woman — “ You neerdoweel, Tam,” quoth she, “ is it no 
enough that you consort with that scarlet limmer, who has 
just yescaped thorough the winday, but ye maun smoor my 
first-born, puir Conscience, atween ye ? Whare hae ye stowed 
him, man — tell me that?” And the ancient damosel gives 
me a shrewd clip on the skull with the poker. “ That’s right, 
mother,” quoth Conscience, from beneath the straw mattrass 
— “ Give it to him — he’ll no hear me — another devel, mother.” 
And I found that my own weight, deserted as I was by that — 
ahem — Prosperity, was no longer sufficient to keep him down. 
So up he rose, with a loud peek; and while the old woman 
keelhauled me with a poker on one side, he yerked at me on 
the other, until at length he gave me a regular cross-buttock, 
and then between them they djddled me outright. When I 
was fairly floored, “ Now, my man,” said Adversity, “ I bear 
no spite; if you will but listen to my boy there, we shall be 
good friends still. He is never unreasonable. He has no ob- 
jections to your consorting even with Madam Prosperity, in 
a decent way ; but he will not consent to your letting her get 
the better of you, nor to your doting on her, even to the 
giving her a share of your bed, when she should never be al- 


26 o 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


lowed to get farther than the servant’s hall, for she should 
be kept in subjection, or she’ll ruin you for ever, Thomas. 
Conscience is a rough lad, I grant you, and I am keen and 
snell also; but never mind, take his advice, and you’ll be 
some credit to your freens yet, ye scoonrel.” I did so, and 
the old lady’s visits became shorter and shorter, and more 
and more distant, until at length they ceased altogether; and 
once more Prosperity, like a dove with its heaven-borrowed 
hues all glowing in the morning sun, pitched one morning 
on my window-sill. It was in June. “ Tom, I am come back 
again.” I glowered at her with all my bir. “ Aiblins ” — 
said I, but I could go no farther. She made a step or two 
towards me, and the lesson of Adversity was fast evaporat- 
ing into thin air, when lo! the sleeping lion himself awoke. 
“ Thomas,” said Conscience, in a voice that made my flesh 
creep, “ not into your bed, neither into your bosom, Thomas. 
Be civil to the young woman, but remember what your best 
friend Adversity told you, and never let her be more than 
your handmaiden again; free to come, free to go, but never 
more to be your mistress.” I screw myself about, and twist, 
and turn in great perplexity — Hard enough all this, and I 
am half-inclined to try to throttle Conscience outright. 

But to make a long story short — I was resolute — “ Step 
into the parlour, my dearest — I hope we shall never part any 
more ; but you must not get the upper hand, you know. So 
step into the other room, and whenever I get my inexpressi- 
bles on, I will come to you there.” 

But this Conscience, about which I am now havering, sel- 
dom acts the monitor in this way, unless against respectable 
crimes, such as murder, debauching your friend’s wife, or 
stealing. But the chield I have to do with for the present, 
and who has led to this rigmarole, is a sort of deputy Con- 
science, a looker-out after small affairs — peccadilloes. The 
grewsome carle, Conscience Senior, . you can grapple with, for 
he only steps forth on great occasions, when he says sternly 
— and the mischief is, that what he says, we know to be true 
— says he, “ Thomas Cringle ” — he never calls me Tom, or 
Mister, or Lieutenant — “ Thomas Cringle ” — says he, “ if you 
do that thing, you shall be damned.” “ Lud-a-mercy,” quoth 
I, Thomas, “ I will perpend, Master Conscience ” — and I set 
myself to eschew the evil deed, with all my might. But Con- 
science the Younger — whom I will take leave to call by 
Quashie’s appellative hereafter, Conshy — is a funny little 
fellow, and another guess sort of a chap altogether. An in- 
stance — “ I say, Tom, my boy — Tom Cringle — why the deuce 
now ” — he won’t say “ the Devil ” for the world— “ Why the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


261 


deuce, Tom, don’t you confine yourself to a pint of wine at 
dinner, eh?” quoth Conshy. “Why will you not give up 
your toddy after it? You are ruining your interior, Thomas, 
my fine fellow — the gout is on the look-out for you — your 
legs are spindling, and your paunch is increasing. Read 
Hamlet’s speech to Polonius, Tom, and if you don’t find all 
the marks of premature old age creeping on you, then am I, 
Conshy, a Dutchman, that’s all.” Now Conshy always lec- 
tures you in the watches of the night ; I generally think his 
advice is good at breakfast time, and during the forenoon, 
egad, I think it excellent and most reasonable, and I deter- 
mine to stick by it — and if Conshy and I dine alone, I do 
adhere to his maxims most rigidly; but if any of my old 
allies should topple in to dinner, Conshy, who is a solitary 
mechanic, bolts instanter. Still I remember him for a time 
— we sit down — the dinner is good. “ I say, Jack, a glass of 
wine — Peter, what shall we have ? ” and until the pint a-piece 
is discussed, all is right between Conshy and me. But then 
comes some grouse. Hook, in his double-refined nonsense, 
palavers about the blasphemy of white wine after brown 
game — and he is not far wrong either; — at least I never 
thought he was, so long as my Hermitage lasted; but at the 
time I speak of, it was still to the fore — so the moment the 
pint a-piece was out, “Hold hard, Tom, now,” cheeps little 
Conshy. “ Why, only one glass of Hermitage, Conshy.” 
Conshy shakes his head. Cheese — after the manner of the 
ancients — ITook again — “ Only one glass of port, Conshy.” 
He shakes his head, and at length the cloth is drawn, and a 
confounded old steward of mine, who is now installed as 
butler, brings in the crystal decanters, sparkling to the wax- 
lights — poor as I am, I consider mutton fats damnable — and 
every thing as it should be, down to a finger-glass. “ Now, 
Mary, where are the children ? ’ I am resolute. “ J ack, I 
can’t drink — out of sorts, my boy — so mind yourself, you and 
Peter. — Now, Conshy,” says I, “where are you now, my 
boy ? ” But just at this instant, Jack strikes out with, “ Crin- 
gle, order me a tumbler — something hot — I don’t care what 
it is.” — “Ditto,” quoth Peter; and down crumbles all my 
fine fabric of resolutions, only to be rebuilt to-morrow, be- 
fore breakfast again, or at any odd moment, when one’s flesh 
is somewhat fishified. — Another instance. “I say, Tom,” 
says Conshy, “ do give over looking at that smart girl trip- 
ping it along t’other side of the street.”— “ Presently, my 
dear little man,” says I. “ Tight little woman that, Conshy; 
handsome bows; good bearings forward; tumbles home 
sweetly about the waist, and tumbles out well above the hips ; 


262 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


what a beautiful run ! and spars clean and tight ; back-stays 
well set up.” — “ Now, Tom, you vagabond, give over. Have 
you not a wife of your own? ” — “ To be sure I have, Conshy, 
my darling; but toujours per ” — “ Have done, now, you are 

going too far,” says Conshy. — “ Oh, you be “ Thomas/' 

cries a still stern voice, from the very inmost recesses of my 
heart. Wee Conshy holds up his finger, and pricks his ear. 
“ Do you hear him f ” says he. — “ I hear,” says I, “ I hear and 
tremble.” Now, to apply. Conshy has been nudging me for 
this half hour to hold my tongue regarding Aaron Bang’s 
sea-sickness. — “ It is absolutely indecent,” quoth he. — “ Can’t 
help it, Conshy; no more than the extra tumbler; those who 
are delicate need not read it; those who are indelicate won’t 
be the worse of it.” — “ But,” persists Conshy — “ I have other 
hairs in your neck, Master Tommy — you are growing a bit 
of a buffoon on us, and sorry am I to say it, sometimes not 
altogether, as a man with a rank imagination may construe 
you, a very decent one. Now, my good boy, I would have 
you to remember that what you write is condemned in the 
pages of Old Christopher to an amber immoralization ” 
(Ohon for the Provost!) “ nay, don’t perk and smile, I mean 
no compliment, for you are but the straw in the amber , Tom, 
and the only wonder is, how the deuce you got there.” 

“ But, my dear Conshy ” 

“Hold your tongue, Tom — let me say out my say, and 
finish my advice — and how will you answer to my father, 
in your old age, when youth, and health, and wealth, may 
have flown, if you find anything in this your Log calculated 
to bring a blush on an innocent cheek, Tom, when the time 
shall have for ever passed away wherein you could have reme- 
died the injury? For Conscience will speak to you then, 
not as I do now, in friendly converse, and impelled by a 
sincere regard for you, you right-hearted, but thoughtless, 
slapdash vagabond.” 

There must have been a great deal of absurd perplexity in 
my visage, as I sat receiving my rebuke, for I noticed Con- 
shy smile, which gave me courage. 

“ I will reform, Conshy, and that immediately ; but my 
moral is good, man.” 

“ Well, well, Tom, I will take you at your word, so set 
about it, set about it.” 

“But, Conshy — a word in your starboard lug — why don’t 
you go to the fountain-head — why don’t you try your hand 
in a curtain lecture on Old Kit North himself, the hoary sin- 
ner who seduced me ? ” 

Conshy could no longer contain himself; the very idea of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


263 

old Kit having a conscience of any kind or description what- 
ever, so tickled him, that he burst into a most uproarious fit 
of laughter, which I was in great hopes would have choked 
him, and thus made me well quit of him for ever. For some 
time I listened in great amazement, but there was something 
so infectious in his fun, that presently I began to laugh too, 
which only increased his cachinnation, so there were Conshy 
and I roaring, and shouting, with the tears running down 
our cheeks. 

“ Kit listen to me ! — O Lord ■” 

“ You are swearing, Conshy,” said I, rubbing my hands at 
having caught him tripping. 

“ And enough to make a Quaker swear,” quoth he, still 
laughing. “ No, no, Kit never listens to me — why, he would 
never listen even to my father, until the gout and the Catho- 
lic Belief Bill, and last of all, the Keform Bill, broke him 
down, and softened his heart.” 

So there is an allegory for you, worthy of John Bunyan. 

Next morning we got the breeze again, when we bore away 
for Santiago de Cuba, and arrived off the Moro Castle on the 
fifth evening at sunset, after leaving Port Boyal harbour. 
The Spaniards, in their better days, were a kind of coral 
worms; wherever they planted their colonies, they immedi- 
ately set to covering themselves in with stone and mortar; 
applying their own. entire energies, and the whole strength 
of their Indian captives, first to the erection of a fort; their 
second object (postponed to the other only through absolute 
necessity) being then to build a temple to their God. Gradu- 
ally vast fabrics appeared, where before there was nothing 
but one eternal forest, or a howling wilderness ; and although 
it does come over one, when looking at the splendid moles, 
and firm-built bastions, and stupendous churches of the New 
World — the latter surpassing, or at the least equalling in 
magnificence and grandeur those of Old Spain herself — that 
they are all cemented by the blood and sweat of millions of 
gentle Indians, of whose harmless existence in many quar- 
ters, they remain the only monuments, still it is a melan- 
choly reflection to look back and picture to one’s self what 
Spain was, and to compare her, in her high and palmy state, 
with what she is now — to compare her present condition even 
with what she was, when, as a young midshipman, I first 
visited her glorious Transatlantic colonies. 

Until the Peninsula was overrun by the French, Buenos 
Ayres, Laguayra, Porto Cavello, Maracaibo, Santa Martha, 
and that stronghold of the west, the key of the Isthmus of 
Darien, Cartagena de las Indias, with Porto Bello, and Vera 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


264 

Cruz, on the Atlantic shores of South America, were all pros- 
perous and happy — “ Llenas de plata;” and on the Western 
coast, Valparaiso, Lima, Panama, and San Bias, were thriv- 
ing and increasing in population and wealth. England, 
through her colonies, was at that, time driving a lucrative 
trade with all of them; but the demon of change was abroad, 
blown thither by the pestilent breath of European liberalism. 
What a vineyard for Abbe Sieyes to have laboured in ! Every 
Capitania would have become a purchaser of one of his cut 
and dried constitutions. Indeed he could not have turned 
them out of hand fast enough. The enlightened few , in 
these countries, were as a drop in the bucket to the unen- 
lightened many ; and although no doubt there were numbers 
of the former who were well-meaning men, yet they were, 
one and all, guilty of that prime political blunder, in com- 
mon with our Whig friends at home, of expecting a set of 
semi-barbarians to see the beauty of, and to conform to, their 
new-fangled codes of free institutions, for which they were 
as ready as I am to die at this present moment. Bolivar, 
in his early fever of patriotism, made the same mistake, al- 
though his shrewd mind, in his later career, saw that a des- 
potism, pure or impure — I will not qualify it — was your only 
government for the savages he had at one time dignified with 
the name of fellow-patriots. But he came to this wholesome 
conclusion too late; he tried back, it is true, but it would not 
do; the fiend had been unchained, and at length hunted him 
broken-hearted into his grave. 

But the men of mind tell us, that those countries are now 
going through the political fermentation , which by and by 
will clear, when the sediment will be deposited, and the dif- 
ferent ranks will each take their acknowledged and undis- 
puted stations in society; and the United States are once 
and again quoted against we of the adverse faction, as if 
there were the most remote analogy between their popula- 
tion, originally composed of all the cleverest scoundrels of 
Europe, and the barbarians of Spanish America, where a 
few master spirits, all old Spaniards, did indeed for a season 
stick fiery off from the dark mass of savages amongst whom 
their lot was cast, like stars in a moonless night, but only to 
suffer a speedy eclipse from the clouds and storm which they 
themselves had set in motion. We shall see. The scum as 
yet is uppermost, and does not seem likely to subside, but it 
may boil over. In Cuba, however, all was at the time quiet, 
and still is, I believe, prosperous, and that too without hav- 
ing come through this said blessed political fermentation. 

During the night we stood off and on under easy sail, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


265 

next morning, when the day broke, with a strong breeze and 
a fresh shower, we were about two miles off the Moro Castle, 
at the entrance of Santiago de Cuba. 

I went aloft to look round me. The sea-breeze blew strong, 
until it reached within half a mile of the shore, where it 
stopped short, shooting in cat’s-paws occasionally into the 
smooth belt of water beyond, where the long unbroken swell 
rolled like molten silver in the rising sun, without a ripple 
on its surface, until it dashed its gigantic undulations 
against the face of the precipitous cliffs on the shore, and 
flew up in smoke. The entrance to the harbour is very nar- 
row, and looked from my perch like a zig-zag chasm in the 
rock, inlaid at the bottom with polished blue steel; so clear, 
and calm, and pellucid was the still water, wherein the 
frowning rocks, and magnificent trees on the banks, and the 
white Moro, rising with its grinning tiers of cannon, battery 
above battery, were reflected veluti in speculum , as if it had 
been in a mirror. 

We had shortened sail, and fired a gun, and the signal for 
a pilot was flying, when the captain hailed me. “ Does the 
sea-breeze blow into the harbour yet, Mr Cringle ? ” 

“ Not yet, sir; but it is creeping in fast.” 

“ Very well. Let me know when you can run in. Mr 
Yerk, back the main-topsail, and heave the ship to.” 

Presently the pilot canoe, with the Spanish flag flying in 
the stern, came alongside; and the pilot, a tall brown man, 
a moreno, as the Spaniards say, came on board. He wore a 
glazed cocked hat, rather an out-of-the-way finish to his fig- 
ure, which was rigged m a simple Osnaburgh shirt, and pair 
of trowsers. He came on the quarterdeck, and made his bow 
to the captain with all the ease in the world, wished him a 
good morning, and, taking his place by the quaitermaster at 
the conn, took charge of the ship. “ Senor,” quoth he to me, 
“is de harbour blow up yet? I mean, you see de viento walk- 
ing into him ? — de terral — dat is land-wind — has he cease ? ” 

“No,” I answered; “the belt of smooth water is growing 
narrower fast; but the sea-breeze does not blow into the 
channel yet. Now it has reached the entrance.” 

“Ah, den make sail, Senor Capitan; fill de main-topsail.” 
We stood in, the scene becoming more and more magnificent 
as we approached the land. 

The fresh green shores of this glorious island lay before 
us, fringed with white surf, as the everlasting ocean in its 
approach to it gradually changed its dark blue colour, as the 
water shoaled, into a bright joyous green under the blazing 
sun, as if in sympathy with the genius of the fair land. 


266 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


before it tumbled at bis feet its gently swelling billows, in 
shaking thunders on the reefs and rocky face of the coast, 
against which they were driven up in clouds, the incense of 
their sacrifice. The undulating hills in the vicinity were all 
either cleared, and covered with the greenest verdure that 
imagination can picture, over which strayed large herds of 
cattle, or with forests of gigantic trees, from amongst which, 
every now and then, peeped out some palm-thatched moun- 
tain settlement, with its small thread of blue smoke floating 
up into the calm clear morning air, while the blue hills in 
the distance rose higher and higher, and more and more blue, 
and dreamy, and indistinct, until their rugged summits could 
not be distinguished from the clouds through the glimmering 
hot haze of the tropics. 

“ By the mark seven,” sung out the leadsman in the star- 
board chains . — ■“ Quarter less three,” responded he in the 
larboard, shewing that the inequalities of the surface at the 
bottom of the sea, even in the breadth of the ship, were at 
least as abrupt as those presented above water by the sides 
of the natural canal into which we were now running. By 
this time, on our right hand, we were within pistol-shot of 
the Moro, where the channel is not above fifty yards across; 
indeed there is a chain, made fast to a rock on the opposite 
side, that can be hove up by a capstan until it is level with 
the surface of the water, so as to constitute an insurmount- 
able obstacle to any attempt to force an entrance in time of 
war. As we stood in, the golden flag of Spain rose slowly 
on the staff at the Water Battery, and cast its large sleepy 
folds abroad in the breeze ; but, instead of floating over mail- 
clad men, or Spanish soldiers in warlike array, three poor 
devils of half -naked mulattoes stuck their heads out of an 
embrazure under its shadow. “ Senor Capitan,” they 
shouted, “ una botella de Roma , por el honor del pais ” We 
were mighty close upon leaving the bones of the old ship 
here, by the by; for at the very instant of entering the har- 
bour’s mouth, the land-wind checked us off, and very nearly 
hove us broadside on upon the rocks below the castle, against 
which the swell was breaking in thunder. 

“ Let go the anchor,” sung out the captain. 

“All gone, sir,” promptly responded the boatswain from 
the forecastle. And as he spoke, we struck once, twice, and 
very heavily the third time. But the breeze coming in strong, 
we fetched way again; and as the cable was promptly cut, 
we got safely off. However, on weighing the anchor after- 
wards, we found the water had been so shoal under the bows, 
that the ship, when she stranded, had struck it, and broken 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


267 

the stock short off by the ring. The only laughable part of 
the story consisted in the old cook, an Irishman, with one 
leg and half an eye, scrambling out of the galley nearly 
naked, in his trowsers, shirt, and greasy nightcap, and 
sprawling on all-fours after two tubsful of yams, which the 
third thump had capsized all over the decks. “ Oh, you 
scurvy-looking tief,” said he, eyeing the pilot; “ if it was 
running us ashore you were set on, why the blazes couldn’t 
ye wait until the yams were in the copper, bad luck to ye — 
and them all scraped too ! I do believe, if they even had been 
taties , it would have been all the same to you.” We stood 
on, the channel narrowing still more — the rocks rising to a 
height of at least five hundred feet from the water’s edge, as 
sharply and precipitously as if they had only yesterday been 
split asunder; the splintered projections and pinnacles on 
one side having each their corresponding fissures and inden- 
tations on the other, as if the hand of a giant could have 
closed them together again. 

Noble trees shot out in all directions wherever they could 
find a little earth and a crevice to hold on by, almost meet- 
ing overhead in several places, and alive with all kinds of 
birds and beasts incidental to the climate; parrots of all 
sorts, great and small, clomb, and hung, and fluttered 
amongst the branches; and pigeons of numberless varieties; 
and the glancing woodpecker, with his small hammer-like 
tap, tap, tap ; and the West India nightingale, and humming- 
birds of all hues ; while cranes, black, white, and gray, fright- 
ened from their fishing-stations, stalked and peeped about, 
as awkwardly as a warrant-officer in his long-skirted coat on 
a Sunday; while whole flocks of ducks flew across the mast- 
heads and through the rigging; and the dragon-like guanas, 
and lizards of many kinds, disported themselves amongst the 
branches, not lazily or loathesomely, as we, who have only 
seen a lizard in our cold climate, are apt to picture, but 
alert, and quick as lightning, their colours changing with 
the changing light or the hues of the objects to which they 
clung, becoming literally, in one respect, portions of the land- 
scape. 

And then the dark, transparent crystal depth of the pure 
waters under foot, reflecting all nature so steadily and dis- 
tinctly, that in the hollows, where the overhanging foliage 
of the laurel-like bushes darkened the scene, you could not 
for your life tell where the elements met, so blended were 
earth and sea. 

“ Starboard,” said I. I had now come on deck. “ Star- 
board, or the main-topgallant-masthead will be foul of the 


268 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


limb of that tree. Foretop, there — lie out on the larboard 
fore-yardarm, and be ready to shove her off, if she sheers too 
close.” 

“ Let go the anchor,” struck in the first lieutenant. 

Splash — the cable rumbled through the hause-hole. 

“ Now, here we are brought up in paradise,” quoth the 
doctor. 

“ Curukity coo — curukity coo,” sung out a great bushy- 
whiskered sailor from the crows’ nest, who turned out to be 
no other than our old friend Timothy Tailtackle, quite juve- 
nilified by the laughing scene. “Here am I, Jack, a booby 
amongst the singing-birds,” crowed he to one of his mess- 
mates in the maintop, as he clutched a branch of a tree in 
his hand and swung himself up into it. But the ship, as 
Old Nick would have it, at the very instant dropped astern 
a few yards in swinging to her anchor, and that so sud- 
denly, that she left him on his perch in the tree, converting 
his jest, poor fellow, into melancholy earnest. “ O Lord, 
sir!” sung out Timotheus, in a great quandary. “Captain, 
do heave a-head a bit — Murder — I shall never get down 
again ! Do, Mr. Yerk, if you please, sir ! ” And there he sat 
twisting and craning himself about, and screwing his fea- 
tures into combinations evincing the most comical per- 
plexity. 

The captain, by way of a bit of fun, pretended not to hear 
him. 

“ Maintop, there,” quoth he. 

The midshipman in the top answered him, “ Ay, ay, sir.” 

“Not you, Mr Reef point; the captain of the top I want.” 

“ tie is not in the top, sir,” responded little Reefpoint, 
chuckling like to choke himself. 

“ Where the devil is he, sir ? ” 

“Here, sir,” squealed Timothy, his usual gruff voice spind- 
ling into a small cheep through his great perplexity. “Here, 
sir.” 

“ What are you doing there, sir ? Come down this mo- 
ment, sir. Rig out the main-topmast-studdingsail-boom, 
Mr Reefpoint, and tell him to slew himself down by that 
long water-withe.” 

To hear was to obey. Poor Timothy clambered down to 
the fork of the tree, from which the withe depended, and im- 
mediately began to warp himself down, until he reached with- 
in three or four yards of the starboard fore-topsail-yardarm; 
but the corvette still dropped astern, so that, after a vain 
attempt to hook on by his feet, he swung off into mid air, 
hanging by his hands. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


269 

It was no longer a joke. “Here, you black fellows in the 
pilot canoe,” shouted the captain, as he threw them a rope 
himself. “ Pass the end of that line round the stump yonder 
— that one below the cliff, there — now pull like devils, 
pull.” 

They did not understand a word he said; but, compre- 
hending his gestures, did what he wished. 

“Now haul on the line, men — gently, that will do. Missed 
it again,” continued the skipper, as the poor fellow once 
more made a fruitless attempt to swing himself on to the 
yard. 

“ Pay out the warp again,” sung out Tailtackle — “ quick, 
quick, let the ship swing from under, and leave me scope 
to dive, or I shall be obliged to let go, and be killed on the 
deck.” 

“ God bless me, yes,” said Transom, “stick out the warp, 
let her swing to her anchor.” 

In an instant all eyes were again fastened with intense 
anxiety on the poor fellow, whose strength was fast failing, 
and his grasp plainly relaxing. 

“ See all clear to pick me up, messmates.” 

Tailtackle slipped down to the extreme end of the black 
withe, that looked like a scorched snake, pressed his legs close 
together, pointing his toes downwards, and then steadying 
himself for a moment, with his hands right above his head, 
and his arms at the full stretch, he dropped, struck the water 
fairly, entering its dark blue depths without a splash, and 
instantly disappeared, leaving a white frothy mark on the 
surface. 

“Did you ever see any thing better done?” said Yerk. 
“Why, he clipped into the water with the speed of light, as 
clean and clear as if he had been a marlinspike.” 

“ Thank heaven ! ” gasped the captain ; for if he had struck 
the water horizontally, or fallen headlong, he would have 
been shattered in pieces — every bone would have been broken 
— he would have been as completely smashed as if he had 
dropped upon one of the limestone rocks on the iron-bound 
shore. 

“ Ship, ahoy! ” We were all breathlessly looking over the 
side where he fell, expecting to see him rise again; but the 
hail came from the water on t’other side. “ Ship, ahoy — 
throw me a rope, good people — a rope, if you please. Do you 
mean to careen the ship, that you have all run to the star- 
board side, leaving me to be drowned to port here ? ” 

“ Ah, Tailtackle ! well done, old boy,” sung out a volley 
of voices, men and officers, rejoiced to see the honest fellow 


270 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


alive. He clambered on board, in the bight of one of twenty 
ropes that were hove to him. 

When he came on deck, the captain slily said, “I don’t 
think you’ll go a birdnesting in a hurry again, Tailtackle.” 

Tim looked with a most quizzical expression at his cap- 
tain, all blue and breathless and dripping as he was ; and then 
sticking his tongue slightly in his cheek, he turned away, 
without addressing him directly, but murmuring as he went, 
“ A glass of grog now.” 

The captain, with whom he was a favourite, took the hint. 
“ Go below now, and turn in till eight bells, Tailtackle. 
Mafame,” to his steward, “send him a glass of hot brandy 
grog.” 

“ A northwester,” whispered T im aside to the functionary ; 
“ half and half, tallow chops, eh ! ” 

About an hour after this, a very melancholy accident hap- 
pened to a poor boy on board, of about fifteen years of age, 
who had already become a great favourite of mine from his 
modest, quiet deportment, as well as of all the gunroom offi- 
cers, although he had not been above a fortnight in the ship. 
He had let himself down over the bows by the cable to bathe. 
There were several of his comrades standing on the fore- 
castle looking at him, and he asked one of them to go out 
on the spritsail-yard, and look round to see if there were any 
sharks in the neighbourhood; but all around was deep, clear, 
green water. He kept hold of the cable, however, and seemed 
determined not to put himself in harm’s way, until a wicked 
little urchin, who used to wait on the warrant-officers’ mess, 
a small meddling snipe of a creature, who got flogged in 
well-behaved weeks only once, began to taunt my little mild 
favourite. 

“ Why, you chicken-heart. I’ll wager a thimbleful of grog, 
that such a tailor as you are in the water can’t for the life 
of you swim out to the buoy there.” 

“ Never you mind, Pepperbottom,” said the boy, giving 
the imp the name he had richly earned by repeated flagella- 
tions. “ Never you mind. I am not ashamed to shew my 
naked hide, you know. But it is against orders in these seas 
to go overboard, unless with a sail under foot; so I sha’n’t 
run the risk of being tattooed by the boatswain’s mate, like 
some one I could tell of.” 

“ Coward,” muttered the little wasp, “ you are afraid, sir ;” 
and the other boys abetting the mischief-maker, the lad was 
goaded to leave his hold of the cable, and strike out for the 
buoy. He reached it, and then turned, and pulled towards 
the ship again, when he caught my eye. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 2J1 

“ Who is that overboard ? How dare you, sir, disobey the 
standing order of the ship ? Come in, boy ; come in.” 

My hailing the little fellow shoved him off his balance, 
and he lost his presence of mind for a moment or two, dur- 
ing which he, if any thing, widened his distance from the 
ship. 

At this instant the lad on the spritsail-yard sung out quick 
and suddenly, “ A shark, a shark ! ” 

And the monster, like a silver pillar, suddenly shot up 
perpendicularly from out the dark green depths of the sleep- 
ing pool, with the waters sparkling and hissing around him, 
as if he had been a sea-demon rushing on his prey. 

“ Pull for the cable, Louis,” shouted fifty voices at once — 
“ pull for the cable.” 

The boy did so — we all ran forward. He reached the 
cable — grasped it with both hands, and hung on, but before 
he could swing himself out of the water, the fierce fish had 
turned. His whitish-green belly glanced in the sun — the 
poor little fellow gave a heart-splitting yell, which was shat- 
tered amongst the impending rocks into piercing echoes, and 
these again were reverberated from cavern to cavern, until 
they died away amongst the hollows in the distance, as if 
they had been the faint shrieks of the damned — yet he held 
fast for a second or two — the ravenous tyrant of the sea tug, 
tugging at him, till the stiff, taught cable shook again. At 
length he was torn from his hold, but did not disappear; the 
animal continuing on the surface crunching his prey with 
his teeth, and digging at him with his jaws, as if trying to 
gorge a morsel too large to be swallowed, and making the 
water flash up in foam over the boats in pursuit, by the 
powerful strokes of his tail, but without ever letting go 
his hold. The poor lad only cried once more — but such a 
cry — oh God, I never shall forget it! — and, could it be pos- 
sible, in his last shriek, his piercing expiring cry, his young 
voice seemed to pronounce my name — at least so I thought 
at the time, and others thought so too. The next moment 
he appeared quite dead. No less than three boats had been 
in the water alongside when the accident happened, and 
they were all on the spot by this time. And there was the 
bleeding and mangled boy, torn along the surface of the 
water by the shark, with the boats in pursuit, leaving a long 
stream of blood, mottled with white specks of fat and mar- 
row in his wake. At length the man in the bow of the gig 
laid hold of him by the arm, another sailor caught the other 
arm, boat-hooks and oars were dug into and launched at the 
monster, who relinquished his prey at last, stripping off the 


272 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


flesh, however, from the upper part of the right thigh, until his 
teeth reached the knee, where he nipped the shank clean off, 
and made sail with the leg m his jaws. 

Poor little Louis never once moved after we took him in. 
I thought I heard a small still stern voice thrill along my 
nerves, as if an echo of the beating of my heart had become 
articulate. “ Thomas, a fortnight ago you impressed that 
poor boy — who was, and now is not — out of a Bristol ship.” 
Alas ! Conscience spokq no more than the truth. 

Our instructions were to lie at St Jago, until three British 
ships, then loading, were ready for sea, and then to convey 
them through the Caicos, or windward passage. As our stay 
was therefore likely to be ten days or a fortnight at the 
shortest, the boats were hoisted out, and we made our little 
arrangements and preparations for taking all the recreation 
in our power; and our worthy skipper, taught and stiff as he 
was at sea, always encouraged all kinds of fun and larking, 
both amongst the men and the officers, on occasions like the 
present. Amongst his other pleasant qualities, he was a 
great boat-racer, constantly building and alterings gigs and 
pulling-boats, at his ow T n expense, and matching the men 
against each other for small prizes. He had just finished 
what the old carpenter considered his chef-d'oeuvre, and a 
curious affair this same masterpiece was. In the first place, 
it was forty-two feet long over all, and only three and a half 
feet beam — the planking was not much above an eighth of 
an inch in thickness, so that if one of the crew had slipped 
his foot off the stretcher, it must have gone through the bot- 
tom. There was a standing order that no man was to go into 
it with shoes on. She was to pull six oars, and her crew were 
the captains of the tops, the primest seamen in the ship, 
and the steersman, no less a character than the skipper him- 
self. 

Her name, for I love to be particular, was the Dragonfly; 
she was painted out and in of a bright red, amounting to a 
flame colour — oars red — the men wearing trowsers and shirts 
of red flannel, and red net nightcaps — which common uni- 
form the captain himself wore. I think I have said before, 
that he was a very handsome man, but if I have not, I say 
so now, and when he had taken his seat, and the gigs, ail 
fine men, were seated each with his oar Held upright upon 
his knees ready to be dropped into the water at the same 
instant, the craft and her crew formed to my eye as pretty 
a plaything for grown children as ever was seen. “ Give 
way, men,” the oars dipped as clean as so many knives, with- 
out a sparkle, the gallant fellows stretched out, and away 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


273 


shot the Dragonfly, like an arrow, the green water foam- 
ing into white smoke at the bows, and hissing away in her 
wake. 

She disappeared in a twinkling round the reach of the 
canal where we were anchored, and we, the officers, for we 
must needs have our boat also, were making ready to be off, 
to have a shot at some beautiful cranes that, floating on- 
their large pinions, slowly passed us with their long legs 
stuck straight out astern, and their longer necks gathered 
into their crops, when we heard a loud shouting in the direc- 
tion where the captain’s boat had vanished. Presently the 
Devil’s Darning Needle, as the Scotch part of the crew loved 
to call the Dragonfly, stuck her long snout round the head- 
land, and came spinning along with a Spanish canoe manned 
by four negroes, and steered by an elderly gentleman, a sharp 
acute-looking little man, in a gingham coat, in her wake, 
also pulling very fast; however, the Don seemed dead beat, 
and the captain was in great glee. By this time, both boats 
were alongside, and the old Spaniard, Don Ricardo Cam- 
pana, addressed the captain, judging that he w r as one of the 
seamen. “ Is the captain on board ? ” said he in Spanish. 
The captain, who understood the language, but did not speak 
it, answered him in French, which Don Ricardo seemed to 
speak fluently, “No, sir, the captain is not on board; but 
there is Mr Yerk, the first lieutenant, at the gangway.” He 
had come for the letter-bag, he said, and if we had any news- 
papers, and could spare them, it would be conferring a great 
favour on him. 

He got his letters and newspapers handed down, and very 
civilly gave the captain a dollar, who touched his cap, tipped 
the money to the men, and winking slightly to old Yerk and 
the rest of us, addressed himself to shove off. The old Don, 
drawing up his eyebrows a little, (I guess he rather saw who 
was who, for all his make-lelieve innocence,) bowed to the 
officers at the gangway, sat down, and desiring his people to 
use their broad-bladed, clumsy-looking oars, or paddles, be- 
gan to move awkwardly away. We, that is the gunroom-offi- 
cers, all except the second lieutenant, who had the watch, 
and the master, now got into our own gig also, rowed by 
ourselves, and away we all went in a covey; the purser and 
doctor, and three of the middies forward, Thomas Cringle, 
gent., pulling the stroke-oar, with old Moses Yerk as cox- 
swain; — and as the Dragonflies were all red, so we were all 
sea-green, boats, oars, trowsers, shirts, and nightcaps. We 
soon distanced the cumbrous-looking Don, and the strain 
was between the Devil’s Darning Needle and our boat, the 


274 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


Watersprite, which was making capital play, for although 
we had not the bottom of the £opmen, yet we had more blood, 
so to speak, and we had already beaten them, in their last 
gig, all to sticks. But Dragonfly was a new boat, and now 
in the water for the first time. 

We were both of us so intent on our own match, that we 
lost sight of the Spaniard altogether, and the captain and 
the first lieutenant were bobbing in the stern-sheets of their 
respective gigs like a couple of souple Tams , as intent on 
the game as if all our lives had depended on it, when in an 
instant the long black dirty prow of the canoe was thrust in 
between us, the old Don singing out, “ Dexa mi lugar, pay- 
sanos, dexa mi lugar, mis hijos We kept away right and 
left, to look at the miracle ; and there lay the canoe, rumbling 
and splashing, with her crew walloping about, and grinning 
and yelling like incarnate fiends, and as naked as the day 
they were born, and the old Don himself, so staid and so 
sedate and drawley as he was a minute before, now all alive, 
shouting “ Tira, diablitos, tira! ”* flourishing a small pad- 
dle, with which he steered about his head like a wheel, and 
dancing and jumping about in his seat, as if his bottom had 
been a haggis with quicksilver in it. 

“ Zounds,” roared the skipper, — “ why, topmen — why, gen- 
tlemen, give way for the honour of the ship — Gentlemen, 
stretch out — Men, pull like devils ; twenty pounds if you beat 
him.” 

We pulled, and they pulled, and the water roared, and 
the men strained their muscles and sinews to cracking; and 
all was splash, splash, and whiz , whiz, and pech, pech, about 
us, but it would not do — the canoe headed us like a shot, and 
in passing, the cool old Don again subsided into a calm as 
suddenly as he had been roused from it, and sitting once 
more, stiff as a poker, turned round and touched liis som- 
brero, “ I will tell that you are coming, gentlemen.” 

It was now the evening, near nightfall, and we had been 
so intent on beating our awkward-looking opponent, that we 
had none of us had time to look at the splendid scene that 
burst upon our view, on rounding a precipitous rock, from 
the crevices of which some magnificent trees shot up — their 
gnarled trunks and twisted branches overhanging the canal 
where we were pulling, and anticipating the fast-falling 
darkness that was creeping over the fair face of nature; and 
there we floated, in the deep shadow of the ^liff and trees — 
Dragonflies and Watersprites, motionless and silent, the 

* “ Leave me room, countrymen — leave me room, my children.” 

+ Equivalent to “pull, you devils, pulll ” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


2 75 


boats floating so lightly that they scarcely seemed to touch 
the water, the men resting on their oars, and all of us rapt 
with the magnificence of the scenery around us, beneath us, 
and above us. 

The left or western bank of the narrow entrance to the 
harbour, from which we were now debouching, ran out in 
all its precipitousness and beauty, (with its dark evergreen 
bushes overshadowing the deep blue waters, and its gigantic 
trees shooting forth high into the glowing western sky, their 
topmost branches gold-tipped in the flood of radiance shed 
by the rapidly sinking sun, while all below where we lay was 
gray cold shade,) until it joined the northern shore, when 
it sloped away gradually towards the east; the higher parts 
of the town sparkled in the evening sun, on this dun ridge, 
like golden turrets on the back of an elephant, while 
the houses that were in the shade covered the declivity with 
their dark masses, until it sank down to the water’s edge. 
On the right hand the haven opened boldly out into a basin 
about four miles broad by seven long, in which the placid 
waters spread out beyond the shadow of the western bank 
into one vast sheet of molten gold, with the canoe tearing 
along the shining surface, her side glancing in the sun, and 
her paddles flashing back his rays, and leaving a long train 
of living fire sparkling in her wake. 

It was now about six o’clock in the evening; the sun had 
set to us, as we pulled along under the frowning brow of the 
cliff, where the birds were fast settling on their nightly 
perches, with small happy twitterings, and the lizards and 
numberless other chirping things began to send forth their 
evening hymn to the great Being who made them and us, and 
a solitary white-sailing owl would every now and then flit 
spectre-like from one green tuft, across the bald face of the 
cliff, to another, and the small divers around us were breaking 
up the black surface of the waters into little sparkling circles 
as they fished for their suppers. All was becoming brown and 
indistinct near us; but the level beams of the setting sun 
still lingered with a golden radiance upon the lovely city, 
and the shipping at anchor before it, making their sails, 
where loosed to dry, glance like leaves of gold, and their 
spars, and masts, and rigging like wires of gold, and gilding 
their flags, which were waving majestically and slow from 
the peaks in the evening breeze; and the Moorish-looking 
steeples of the churches were yet sparkling in the glorious 
blaze, which was gradually deepening into gorgeous crimson, 
while the large pillars of the cathedral, then building on the 
highest part of the ridge, stood out like brazen monuments. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


276 

softening even as we looked into a Stonehenge of amethysts. 
One half of every object, shipping, houses, trees, and hills, 
was gloriously illuminated; but even as we looked, the lower 
part of the town gradually sank into darkness, and faded 
from our sight — the deepening gloom cast by the high bank 
above us, like the dark shadow of a had spirit, gradually 
crept on, and on, and extended farther and farther ; the sail- 
ing water-fowl in regular lines, no longer made the water 
flash up like flame ; the russet mantle of eve was fast extend- 
ing over the entire hemisphere; the glancing minarets, and 
the tallest trees, and the topgallant-yards and masts of the 
shipping, alone flashed hack the dying effulgence of the 
glorious orb, which every moment grew fainter and fainter, 
and redder and redder, until it shaded into purple, and the 
loud deep bell of the convent of La Merced swung over the 
still waters, announcing the arrival of even-song and the 
departure of day. 

“ Had we not better pull back to supper, sir ? ” quoth 
Moses Yerk to the captain. We all started, the men dipped 
their oars, our dreams were dispelled, the charm was broken 
— “ Confound the matter-of-fact blockhead,” or something 
very like it, grumbled the captain — “ but give way, men,” 
fast followed, and we returned towards the ship. We had 
not pulled fifty yards, when we heard the distant rattle of the 
muskets of the sentries at the gangways, as they discharged 
them at sundown, and were remarking, as we were rowing 
-leisurely along, upon the strange effects produced by the re- 
ports, as they were frittered away amongst the overhanging 
cliffs in chattering reverberations, when the captain suddenly 
sung out, “ Oars ! ” All hands lay on them. “ Look there,” 
he continued — “ There — between the gigs — saw you ever any 
thing like that, gentlemen?” We all leant over; and al- 
though the boats, from the way they had, were skimming 
along nearer seven than five knots — there lay a large shark; 
he must have been twelve feet long at the shortest, swimming 
right in the middle, and equidistant from both, and keeping 
way with us most accurately. 

He was distinctly visible, from the strong and vivid phos- 
phorescence excited by his rapid motion through the sleeping 
waters of the dark creek, which lit up his jaws, and head, 
and whole body; his eyes were especially luminous, while a 
long wake of sparkles streamed away astern of him from the 
lashing of his tail. As the boats lost their speed, the lumi- 
nousness of his appearance faded gradually as he shortened 
sail also, until he disappeared altogether. He was then at 
rest, and suspended motionless in the water; and the only 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


2 77 


thing that indicated his proximity, was an occasional sparkle 
from the motion of a tin. We brought the boats nearer 
together, after puling a stroke or two, but he seemed to sink 
as we closed, until at last we could merely perceive an indis- 
tinct halo far down in the clear black profound. But as we 
separated, and resumed our original position, he again rose 
near the surface; and although the ripple and dip of the 
oars rendered him invisible while we were pulling, yet the 
moment we again rested on them, there was the monster, 
like a persecuting fiend, once more right between us, glaring 
on us, and apparently watching every motion. It was a 
terrible spectacle, and rendered still more striking by the 
melancholy occurrence of the forenoon. 

“ That’s the very identical, damnable baste himself, as 
murthered poor little Louis this morning, yeer honour; I 
knows him from the torn flesh of him under his larboard 
blinker, sir, — just where Wiggen’s boathook punished him,” 
quoth the Irish captain of the mizzen top. 

“ A water-kelpie,” murmured another of the captain’s gigs, 
a Scotchman. 

The men were evidently alarmed. “ Stretch out, men ; 
never mind the shark. He can’t jump into the boat, surely,” 
said the skipper. “ What the deuce are you afraid of ? ” 

We arrived within pistol-shot of the ship. As we ap- 
proached, the sentry hailed, “ Boat, ahoy ! ” 

“ Firebrand,” sung out the skipper, in reply. 

“Man the side — gangway lanterns there,” quoth the officer 
on duty; and by the timp we were close to, there were two 
sidesmen over the side with the manropes ready stuck out to 
our grasp, and two boys with lanterns above them. We got 
on deck, the officers touching their hats, and speedily the 
captain dived down the ladder, saying, as he descended, “ Mr 
Yerk, I shall be happy to see you and your boat’s crew at 
supper, or rather to a late dinner, at eight o’clock ; but come 
down a moment as you are. Tailtackle bring the gigs into the 
cabin and get a glass of grog, will you ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” responded Timothy. “Down with you, you 
flaming thieves, and see you don’t snort and sniffle in your 
grog, as if you were in your own mess, like so many pigs 
slushing at the same trough.’’ 

“Lord love you, Tim,” rejoined one of the topmen, “who 
made you master of the ceremonies, old Ironfist, eh? Where 
learnt you your breeding ? Among the cockatoos up yonder ? ” 
Tim laughed, who, although he ought to have been in his 
bed, had taken his seat in the Dragonfly when her crew were 
piped over the side in the evening, and thereby subjected 


278 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


himself to a rap over the knuckles from the captain; but 
where the offence might be said to consist in a too assiduous 
discharge of his duty, it was easily forgiven, unfortunate as 
the issue of the race had been. So down we all trundled into 
the cabin, masters and men. It was brilliantly lighted up — 
the table sparkling with crystal and wine, and glancing with 
silver plate; and there on a sofa lay Aaron Bang in all his 
pristine beauty, and fresh from his toilet, for he had just got 
out of his cot after an eight-and-forty hours’ sojourn therein 
— nice white neckcloth — white jean waistcoat and trousers, 
and span-new blue coat. He was reading when we entered; 
and the captain, in his flame-coloured costume, was close 
aboard of him before he raised his eyes, and rather staggered 
him a bit; but when seven sea-green spirits followed, he was 
exceedingly nonplussed, and then came the six red Dragon- 
flies, who ranged themselves three on each side of the door, 
with their net-bags in their hands, smoothing down their hair, 
and sidling and fidgeting about at finding themselves so far 
out of their element as the cabin. 

“ Mafame,” said the captain, “ a glass of grog a-piece to 
the Dragonflies,” — and a tumbler of liquid amber (to borrow 
from my old friend Cooper) sparkled in the large bony claw 
of each of them. “ Now, drink Mr Bang’s health.” They 
as in duty bound, let fly at our amigo in a volley. 

“Your health, Mr Bang.” 

Aaron sprung from his seat, and made his salaam, and the 
Dragonflies bundled out of the cabin again. 

“I say, Transom, John Canoeing still — always some frolic 
in the wind.” 

We, the Watersprites, had shifted and rigged, and were all 
mustered aft on the poop, enjoying the little air there was, as 
it fanned us gently, and waiting for the announcement of 
supper. It was a pitch-dark night, neither moon nor stars. 
The murky clouds seemed to have settled down on the mast- 
heads, shrouding every object in the thickest gloom. 

“ Ready with the gun forward there, Mr. Catwell ? ” said 
Yerk. 

“All ready, sir.” 

“ Fire!” 

Pent up as we were in a narrow channel, walled in on each 
side with towering precipitous rocks, the explosion, multiplied 
by the echoes into a whole broadside, was tremendous, and 
absolutely deafening. 

The cold, gray, threatening rocks, and the large overhang- 
ing twisted branches of the trees, and the clear black water, 
and the white Moro in the distance, glanced for an instant. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


279 


and then all was again veiled in utter darkness, and down 
came a rattling shower of sand and stones from the cliffs, and 
of rotten branches, and heavy dew from the trees, sparkling 
in the water like a shower of diamonds ; and the birds of the 
air screamed, and, frightened from their nests and perches in 
crevices, and on the boughs of the trees, took flight with a 
strong rushing noise, that put one in mind of the rising of the 
fallen angels from the infernal council in Paradise Lost ; and 
the cattle on the mountain-side lowed, and the fish, large and 
small, like darts and arrows of fire, sparkled up from the black 
abyss of waters, and swam in haloes of flame round the ship 
in every direction, as if they had been the ghosts of a ship- 
wrecked crew, haunting the scene of their destruction; and 
the guanas and large lizards which had been shaken from the 
trees, skimmed and struggled on the surface in glances of fire, 
like evil spirits watching to seize them as their prey. At 
length the screaming and shrieking of the birds, the clang of 
their wings, and the bellowing of the cattle, ceased; and the 
startled fish subsided slowly down into the oozy caverns at 
the bottom of the sea, and becoming motionless, disappeared ; 
and all was again black and undistinguishable, the death-like 
silence being only broken by the hoarse murmuring of the 
distant surf. 

“ Magnificent ! ” burst from the captain. “ Messenger, send 
Mr Portfire here.” The gunpowder functionary, he of the 
flannel cartridge, appeared. “ Gunner, send one of your 
mates into the maintop, and let him burn a blue light.” 

The lurid glare blazed up balefully amongst the spars and 
rigging, lighting up the decks, and blasting the crew into the 
likeness of the host of Sennacherib, when the day broke on 
them, and they were all dead corpses. Astern of us, indis- 
tinct from the distance, the white Morro Castle reappeared, 
and rose frowning, tier above tier, like a Tower of Babel, 
with its summit veiled in the clouds, and the startled sea- 
fowl wheeling above the higher batteries, like snow-flakes 
blown about in a storm; while, near at hand, the rocks on 
each side of us looked as if fresh splintered asunder, with the 
sulphureous flames which had split them still burning; the 
trees looked no longer green, but were sicklied o’er with a 
pale ashy colour, as if sheeted ghosts were holding their mid- 
night orgies amongst their branches — cranes, and waterfowl, 
and birds of many kinds, and all the insect and reptile tribes, 
tlieir gaudy noontide colours merged into one and the same 
fearful death-like sameness, flitted and sailed and circled 
above us, and chattered, and screamed, and shrieked ; and the 
unearthly-looking guanas, and numberless creeping things, 


280 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ran out on the boughs to peer at us, and a large snake twined 
itself up a scathed stump that shot out from a shattered pin- 
nacle of rock that overhung us, with his glossy skin 
glancing like the brazen serpent set up by Moses in the camp 
of the Israelites ; and the cattle on the beetling summit of the 
cliff craned over the precipitous ledge to look down upon us; 
and while every thing around us and above us was thus 
glancing in the blue and ghastly radiance, the band struck up 
a low moaning air; the light burnt out, and once more we 
were cast, by the contrast, into even more palpable darkness 
than before. I was entranced, and stood with folded arms, 
looking forth into the night, and musing intensely on the ap- 
palling scene which had just vanished like a feverish dream — 
“ Dinner waits, sir,” quoth Mafame. 

“Oh! I am coming;” and kicking all my romance to Old 
Nick, I descended, and we had a pleasant night of it, and 
some wine and some fun, and there an end — but I have often 
dreamed of that dark pool, and the scenes I witnessed there 
that day and night. 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE PIRATE^ LEMAN 

44 When lovely woman stoops to folly. 

And finds too late that men betray. 

What charm can soothe her melancholy 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

14 The only art her guilt to cover. 

To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover, 

And wring his bosom— is to die.” 

Vicar of Wakefield. 

“ Ay Dios , si sera possible que he ya hallado lugar que pueda servir de escort - 
dida sepultura a la carga pesada deste cuerpo , que tan contra m i voluntad 
sostengo ? ” Bon Quixote de la Mancha. 

The next morning, after breakfast, I proceeded to Santiago, 
and landed at the custom-house wharf, where I found every 
thing bustle, dust, and heat; several of the captains of the 
English vessels were there, who immediately made up to me 
and reported how far advanced in their lading they were, and 
inquired when we were to give them convoy, the latest news 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


281 


from Kingston, &c. At length I saw our friend Ricardo Cam- 
pana going along one of the neighbouring streets, and I im- 
mediately made sail in chase. He at once recognized me, 
gave me a cordial shake of the hand, and inquired how he 
could serve me. I produced two letters which I had brought 
for him, but which had been forgotten in the bustle of the 
preceding day; they were introductory, and although sealed, 
I had some reason to conjecture that my friend, Mr Pepperpot 
Wagtail, had done me much more than justice. Campana, 
with great kindness, immediately invited me to his house. 
“We foreigners,” said he, “don’t keep your hours; I am 
just going home to breakfast.” It was past eleven in the 
forenoon. I was about excusing myself on the plea of having 
already breakfasted, when he silenced me. “ Why, I guessed 
as much, Mr Lieutenant, but then you have not lunched; so 
you can call it lunch, you know, if it will ease your con- 
science.” There was no saying nay to all this civility, so 
we stumped along the burning streets, through a mile of 
houses, large massive buildings, but very different in exter- 
nals from the gay domiciles of Kingston. Aaron Bang after- 
wards used to say that they looked more like prisons than 
dwelling-houses, and he was not in this very much out. 
Most of them were built of brick and plastered over, with 
large windows, in front of each of which, like the houses in 
the south of Spain, there was erected a large heavy wooden 
balcony, projecting far enough from the wall to allow a 
Spanish chair, such as I have already described, to be placed 
in it. The front of these verandahs was closed in with a 
row of heavy balustrades at the bottom, of a variety of shapes, 
and by clumsy carved woodwork above, which effectually 
prevented you from seeing into the interior. The whole had 
a Moorish air, and in the upper part of the towm .there was 
a Sabbath-like stillness prevailing, which was only broken 
now and then by the tinkle of a guitar from one of the 
aforesaid verandahs, or by the rattling of a crazy volante, a 
sort of covered gig, drawn by a broken-kneed and broken- 
winded mule, with a kiln-dried old Spaniard or dona in it. 

The lower part of the town had been busy enough, and the 
stir and hum of it rendered the quietude of the upper part 
of it more striking. 

A shovel-hatted friar now suddenly accosted us. 

“ Senor Campana — ese pobre familia de Cangrejo ! Lasti- 
ma! Lastima!” 

“ Cangrejo — Cangrejo! ” muttered I; “why, it is the very 
name attached to the miniature.” 

Campana turned to the priest, and they conversed earnestly 


282 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


together for some moments, when he left him, and we again 
held on our way. I could not help asking what family that 
was, whose situation the “ padre ” seemed so feelingly to 
bemoan. 

“Never mind,” said he; “never mind; they were a proud 
family once, but that is all over now — come along.” 

“ But,” said I, “ I have a very peculiar cause of interest 
with regard to this family. You are aware, of course, of 
the trial and execution of the pirates in Kingston, the most 
conspicuous of whom was a young man called Federico 
Cangrejo, from whom ” 

“ Mr Cringle,” said he, solemnly, “ at a fitting time I will 
hear you regarding that matter ; at present I entreat you will 
not press it.” 

Good manners would not allow me to push it farther, and 
we trudged along together, until we arrived at Don Ricardo 
Campana’s door. It was a large brick building, plastered 
over as already described, and whitewashed. There was a 
projecting stair in front, with a flight of stairs to the right 
and left, with a parapet wall towards the street. There 
were two large windows, with the wooden verandah or lattice 
already described, on the first floor, and on the second a range 
of smaller windows, of the same kind. What answered to 
our ground floor was used as a warehouse, and. filled with 
dry goods, sugar, coffee, hides, and a vast variety of miscel- 
laneous articles. We ascended the stairs, and entered a lofty 
room, cool and dark, and paved with large diamond-shaped 
bricks, and every way desirable for a West India lounge, all 
to the furniture, which was meagre enough; three or four 
chairs, a worm-eaten old leathern sofa, and a large clumsy 
hardwood table in the midst. 

There were several children playing about, little sallow 
devils, although, I dare say, they could all of them have been 
furnished with certificates of white parentage, upon whom 
one or two negro women were hovering in attendance beyond 
a large folding door that fronted the entrance. 

When we entered, the eldest of the children, a little girl 
of about eight years old, was sitting in the doorway, playing 
with a small blue toy that I could make nothing of, until, 
on a nearer inspection, I found it to be a live land-crab, 
which the little lady had manacled with a thread by the foot, 
the thread being fastened to a nail driven into a seam of the 
floor. 

As an article of food, I was already familiar with this 
creature; it was in every respect like a sea-crab, only smaller, 
the body being at the widest not above three inches across 


TOM CRINGLE’S . LOG 


283 

the back. It fed without any apparent fear, and while it 
pattered over the tiled floor, with its hard claws, it would 
now and then stop and seize a crumb of bread in its forceps, 
and feed itself like a little monkey. By the time I had ex- 
changed a few words with the little lady, the large door that 
opened into the hall on the right hand moved, and mine 
hostess made her appearance; a small woman, dressed in a 
black gown, very laxly fitted. She was the very converse of 
our old ship, she never missed stays, although I did cruelly. 

“ This is my friend, Lieutenant Cringle,” said mine host. 

“A las pies de usted, senora” responded your humble 
servant. 

“ I am very glad to see you ” said the lady ; “ but break- 
fast is ready; welcome, sir, welcome.” 

The food was not amiss, the coffee decidedly good, and the 
chocolate, wherein, if you had planted a tea-spoon, it would 
have stood upright, was excellent. When we had done with 
substantial, dulce, that is the fruit of the guava preserved, 
in small wooden boxes, (like drums of figs,) after being made 
into a kind of jam, was placed on the table, and mine host 
and his spouse had eaten a bushel of it a-piece, and drank a 
gallon of that most heathenish beverage, cold clear water, 
before the repast was considered ended. After a hearty meal 
and a pint of claret, I felt rather inclined to sit still, and ex- 
patiate for an hour or so, but Campana roused me, and asked 
whether or not I felt inclined to go and look at the town. 
I had no apology, and although I would much rather have 
sat still, I rose to accompany him, when in walked Captain 
Transom and Mr Bang. They were also kindly received by 
Don Bicardo. 

“ Glad of the honour of this visit,” said he in French, with 
a slight lift of the corner of his mouth ; “ I hope neither 
you nor your boat’s crew took any harm after the heat of 
yesterday.” 

Transom laughed. 

“ Why, you did beat us very neatly, Don Bicardo. Pray, 
where got you that canoe? But a lady — Mrs Campana, I 
presume ? — Have the goodness to introduce me.” 

The skipper was presented in due form, the lady receiving 
him without the least mauvaise honte, which, after all, I be- 
lieve to be indigenous to our island. Aaron was next intro- 
duced, who, as he spoke no lingo, as I knows of, to borrow 
Timotheus Tailtackle’s phraseology, but English, was rather 
posed in the interview. 

“ I say, Tom, tell her I wish she may live a thousand years. 
Ah, so, that will do.” 


284 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

Madame made her conge , and hoped 11 El sehor tomaria un 
asiento.” 

“Mucho, mucho ” sang out Bang, who meant by that that 
he was much obliged. 

At length Don Ricardo came to our aid. He had arranged 
a party into the country for next morning, and invited us 
all to come back to a tertulia in the evening, and to take beds 
in his house, he undertaking to provide bestias to carry us. 

We therefore strolled out, a good deal puzzled what to 
make of ourselves until the evening, when we fell in with 
one of the captains of the English ships then loading, who 
told us that there was a sort of hotel a little way down the 
street, where we might dine at two o’clock at the table d’hote. 
It was as yet only twelve, so we stumbled into this said hotel 
to reconnoitre, and a sorry affair it was. The public room 
was fitted with rough wooden tables, at which Spaniards, 
Americans, and Englishmen, sat and smoked, and drank 
sangaree, hot punch, or cold grog, as best suited them, and 
committed a vast variety of miscellaneous abominations 
during their potations. We were about giving up all 
thoughts of the place, and had turned to go to the door, when 
in popped our friend Don Ricardo. He saw we were somewhat 
abroad. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ if I may ask, have you any engage- 
ment to dinner ? ” 

“ No, we have none”’ 

“ Well, then, will you do me the honour of partaking of 
my family fare, at three o’clock? I did not venture to in- 
vite you before, because I knew you had other letters to de- 
liver, and I wished to leave you masters of your own time.” 
We gladly accepted his kind offer; he had made his how, and 
was cruising amongst the smokers, and punch-drinkers, 
where the blue-coated masters of the English merchantmen 
and American skippers, were hobbing and nobbing with the 
gingham-coated Dons, for the whole Spanish part of the com- 
munity were figged out in Glasgow and Paisley ginghams; 
when the priest, who had attracted our attention in the 
morning, came up to him, and drew him aside. They talked 
earnestly together, the clerigo, every now and then, indicat- 
ing by significant nods and glances towards us, that we 
formed the burden of his song, whatever that might be. 
Campana seemed exceedingly unwilling to communicate the 
message, which we guessed he had been entreated to carry to 
us,, and made one or two attempts to shove the friar in pro- 
pria persona towards us, that he might himself tell his own 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 285 

story. At length they advanced together to where we stood, 
when he addressed me. 

“ You must pardon me, lieutenant; but as the proverb hath 
it, ‘ strange countries, strange manners ; ’ my friend here, 
Padre Carera, brings a message from El Senor Picador Can- 
grejo, one of our magnates, that he will consider it an especial 
favour if you will call on him, either this forenoon or to- 
morrow.” 

“ Why, who is this Cangrejo, Don Ricardo? if he be not the 
father of the poor fellow I mentioned, there must be some 
mystery about him.” 

“No mystery,” chimed in the monk; “ no mystery, God help 
us, but mucha, mucha miseria, hijo mio ; much misery sir, 

and more impending, and none to help save only ” He did 

not finish the sentence, but taking off his shovel-hat, and 
shewing his finely turned bald head he looked up to heaven, 
and crossed himself, the tears trickling down his wrinkled 
cheeks. “ But,” continued he, “ you will come, Mr Cringle ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said I, “ to-morrow I will call, if my friend 
Don Ricardo will be my guide.” This being fixed, we strolled 
about until dinner-time, friend Aaron making his remarks 
regarding the people and their domiciles with great naivete. 

“ Strange now, Tom, I had expected to see little else 
amongst the slave population here than misery and starva- 
tion; whereas, as far as I can observe, they are all deucedly 
well cared for, and fat, and contented ; and from the inquiries 
I was making amongst the captains of the merchantmen” 

(“ Masters,” interjected Captain Transom, “ Master of 

a merchantman. Captain of a man-of-war ”) “ Well, 

captains of merchantmen — masters I mean — I find that the 
people whom they employ are generally free; and, farther, 
that the slaves are not more than three to one free person, 
yet they export a great deal of produce. Captain Transom — 
must keep my eyes about me.” And so he did, as will be 
seen by and by. But the dinner-hour drew near, and we re- 
paired to Don Ricardo’s, where we found a party of eight as- 
sembled, and our appearance was the signal for the repast 
being ordered in. It was laid out in the entrance-hall. The 
table was of massive mahogany, the chairs of the same 
material, with stuffed bottoms, covered with a dingy coloured 
morocco, which might have been red once. But devil a dish 
of any kind was on the snow-white table-cloth when we sat 
down, and our situations, or the places we were expected to fill 
at the board, were only indicated by a large knife and silver 
fork and spoon laid down for each person. The company con- 
sisted of Don Ricardo Campana, la Senora Campana, and a 


286 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


brother of hers, two dark young men, who were Don Ricardo’s 
clerks, and three young women, ladies, or senoras, as I ought to 
have called them, who were sitting so far back into the shade, 
at the dark end of the room, when we entered, that I could 
not tell what they were. Our hostess was, although a little 
woman, a good-looking dark Spaniard, not very polished, but 
very kind; and seeing tnat our friend Aaron was the most 
helpless amongst us, she took him under her especial care, and 
made many a civil speech to him, although her husband did 
not fail to advertise her, that he understood not one word of 
Spanish, that is, of all she was saying to him. However, he 
replied to her kindnesses by his never-failing exclamation of 
“ mucho, mucho ,” and they appeared to be . getting on ex- 
tremely well. “ Bring dinner,” quoth Don Ricardo, “ trae la 
comida; ” and four black female domestics entered, the first 
with a large dish of pillaffe, or fowls smothered in rice and 
onions ; the second with a nondescript melange, flesh, fish, and 
fowl apparently, strongly flavoured with garlic ; the third bore 
a dish of jerked beef, cut into long shreds, and swimming in 
sebo, or lard; and the fourth bore a large dish full of that in- 
describable thing known by those who read Don Quixote, as 
an olla podrida. The sable handmaidens began to circulate 
round the table, and every one helped himself to the dish that 
he most fancied. At length they placed them on the board, 
and brought massive silver salvers, with snow-white bread, 
twisted into strands in the baking, like junks of a cable; and 
water jars, and yams nicely roasted and wrapped in plantain 
leaves. These were in like manner handed round, and then 
deposited on the table, and the domestics vanished. 

We all got on cheerily enough, and both the captain and 
myself were finishing off with the olla podrida , with which, 
it so happened, we were familiar, and friend Bang, taking the 
time from us, took heart of grace and straightway followed 
our example. There was a pause — rather an irksome one 
from its continuance, so much so indeed, that knocking off 
from my more immediate business of gorging the aforesaid 
olla podrida , I looked up, and as it so happened, by accident 
towards our friend Bang — and there he was, munching and 
screwing up his energies to swallow a large mouthful of the 
mixture, against which his stomach appeared to rebel. 
“ Smollet’s feast after the manner of the ancients,” whis- 
pered Transom. At length he made a vigourous effort, and 
straightway sung out — “ Ueau de vie, Don Ricardibus — some 
brandy, mon ami — for the love of all the respectable saints in 
the calendar.” 

Mine host laughed, but the females were most confoundedly 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


287 

posed. The younger ones ran for aromatic salts, while the 
lady of the house fetched some very peculiar distilled waters. 
She, in her kindness, filled a glass and helped Bang, but the 
instant he perceived the flavour, he thrust it away. 

“ Anniseed — damn anniseed — no, no — obliged — mucho, 
mucho — but brandy plaino, that is simple of itself, if you 
please — that’s it — Lord love you, my dear madam — may you 
live a thousand years though.” 

The pure brandy was administered, and once more the dark 
beauties reappeared, the first carrying a bottle of vin-de-grave, 
the second one of vinotinto, or claret, and the third one of 
Veau de vie , for Aaron’s peculiar use. These were placed be- 
fore the landlord, who helped himself to half a pint of claret, 
which he poured into a large tumbler, and then putting a drop 
or two of water into it, tasted it, and sent it to his wife. In 
like manner, he gave a smaller quantity to each of the other 
senoras, when the whole female part of the family drank our 
healths in a volley. But all this time the devil a thing drinka- 
ble was there before we males, but goblets of pure cold water. 
Bang’s “ mucho, mucho/' even failed him, for he had only in 
his modesty got a thimbleful of brandy to qualify the olla 
podrida. However, in a twinkling a beautiful long-necked 
bottle of claret was planted at each of our right hands, and of 
course we lost no time in returning the unlooked for civility 
of the ladies. Until this moment I had not got a proper 
glimpse of the three Virgins of the Sun, who were seated at 
table with us. They were very pretty Moorish-looking girls, as 
like as peas, dark hair, black eyes, clear colourless olive com- 
plexion, and no stays; but young and elastic as their figures 
were, this was no disadvantage. They were all three dressed 
in black silk petticoats, over a sort of cambric chemise, with 
large frills hanging down at the bosom, but gown, properly so 
called, they had none, theirs arms being unencumbered with 
any clothing heavier than a shoulder strap. The eldest was a 
fine full young woman of about nineteen; the second was 
more tall and stately, but slighter; and the youngest was — 
oh, she was an angel of light — such hair, such eyes, and such 
a mouth ; then her neck and bosom — 

“ Oh, my Nora’s gown for me. 

To rise and fall as nature pleases,” 

when the wearer is, as in the present case she was, young and 
beautiful. They all wore a long plain white gauze strap, like 
a broad ribbon, (little Beefpoint afterwards said they wore 
boat pennants at their mastheads,) I don’t know what Madam 
Maradan Carson would call it, in their hair, which fell down 


288 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


from amongst the braids nearly to their heels, and then they 
replied in their magnificent language, when casually ad- 
dressed during dinner, with so much naivete. We, the males 
of the party, had drank little or nothing — a bottle of claret or 
so a-piece — and a dram of brandy, to qualify a little vin-de- 
grave that we had flirted with during dinner, when our land- 
lord rose, along with his brother-in-law, wished us a good 
afternoon, and departed to his counting-house, saying he 
would be back by dark, leaving the captain and me, and friend 
Bang, to amuse the ladies the best way we could, as the clerks 
had taken wing along with their master. Don Ricardo’s de- 
parture seemed to be the signal for all hands breaking loose, 
and a regular romping match took place, the girls producing 
their guitars, and we were all mighty frolicsome and happy, 
when a couple of padres from the convent of La Merced, in 
their white flannel gowns, black girdles, and shaven crowns, 
suddenly entered the hall. We, the foreign part of the society, 
calculated on being pulled up by the clerigos, but deuce a bit ; 
on the contrary, the young females clustered round them, 
laughing and joking, while the Senora Campana presented 
them with goblets of claret, in which they drank our healths, 
once and again, and before long they were gamboling about, 
all shaven and shorn, like a couple of three-year-olds. Bang 
had a large share of their assiduity, and to see him, waltzing 
with a fine active, and what I fancy to be a rarity, a clean- 
looking priest, with his ever recurring “ mucho, mucho,” was 
rather entertaining. 

The director of the post-office, and a gentleman who was 
called the “ Corregidor de Tabaco” literally the “ corrector 
of tobacco,” dropped in about this time, and one or two 
ladies, relatives of Mrs Campana, and Don Ricardo returning 
soon after, we had sweetmeats and liqueurs, and coffee and 
chocolate, and a game at monte, and maco, and were, in 
fact, very happy. But the happiest day, as well as the most 
miserable, must have an end, and the merry party dropped 
off, one after another, until we were left all alone with our 
host’s family. Madama soon after took her departure, wishing 
us a good night. She had no sooner gone, than Bang began 
to shoot out his horns a bit. “ I say, Tom, ask the Don to let 
us have a drop of something hot, will you, a tumbler of hot 
brandy and water after the waltzing, eh? I don’t see the bed- 
room candles yet.” Nor would he, if we had sat there till 
doomsday. Campana seemed to have understood Bang, the 
brandy was immediately forthcoming, and we drew in to the 
table to enjoy ourselves, Bang waxing talkative. “ Now what 
odd names, — why, what a strange office it must be for his 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


289 

majesty of Spain to employ at every port a corrector of to- 
bacco; that his liege subjects may not be imposed on, I sup- 
pose — what capital cigars this same corrector must have, eh? ” 

I suppose it is scarcely necessary to mention, that through- 
out all the Spanish American possessions, tobacco is a royal 
monopoly, and that the officer above alluded to is the func- 
tionary who has the management of it. Don Ricardo, hearing 
something about cigars, took the hint, and immediately pro- 
duced a straw case from his pocket, and handed it to Bang. 

“ Mucho, mucho ,” quoth Bang; “capital, real Havana.” 

So now, since we had all gotten fairly into the clouds, there 
was no saying how long we should have remained in the sev- 
enth heaven — much would have depended upon the continu- 
ance of the supply of brandy — but two female slaves pres- 
ently made their appearance, each carrying a quatre. I be- 
lieve I have already described this easily rigged couch some- 
where; it is a hard-wood frame, like what supports the loose 
top of a laundry table, with canvass stretched over the top of 
it, but in such a manner that it can be folded up flat, and 
laid against the wall when not in use, while a bed can be im- 
mediately constructed by simply opening it and stretching the 
canvass. The handmaidens accordingly set to work to ar- 
range two beds, or quatres, one on each side of the table where 
we were sitting, while Bang sat eyeing them askance, in a 
kind of wonderment as to the object of their preparations, 
which were by no means new either to the captain or me, who, 
looking on them, as matters of course, continued in close con- 
fabulation with Don Ricardo during the operations. 

“ I say, Tom,” at length quoth Bang, “ are you to be laid 
out on one of these outlandish pieces of machinery, eh ? ” 

“ Why, I suppose so ; and comfortable enough beds they are, 
I can assure you.” 

“Don’t fancy them much, however,” said Bang; “rather 
flimsy the framework.” 

The servants now very unceremoniously, no leave asked, be- 
gan to clear aw r ay all the glasses and tumblers on the table. 

“ Hillo ! ” said the skipper, casting an inquiring glance at 
Campana, who, however, did not return it, but, as a matter of 
course apparently, rose, and taking a chair to the other end 
of the room, close by the door of an apartment which opened 
from it, began in cold blood to unlace and disburden himself 
of all his apparel, even unto his shirt. 

This surprised us all a good deal, but our wonderment was 
lost on the Don, who got up from his seat, and in his linen 
garment, which was deucedly laconic, made his formal bow, 
wished us good-night, and vanished through the door. By this 


290 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the ebony ladies had cleared the table of the crystal, and had 
capped it with a yellow leather mattrass, with pillows of the 
same, both embossed with large tufts of red silk; on this they 
placed one sheet, and leaving a silver apparatus at the head, 
they disappeared — “ Buenas noches, senores — las camas estan 
listas” 

Bang had been unable to speak from excess of astonish- 
ment; but the skipper and I, finding there was no help for it, 
had followed Campana’s example, and kept pace with him in 
our peeling , so that by the time he disappeared, we were ready 
to topple into our quatres , which we accordingly did, and by 
this time we were both at full length, with our heads cased 
each in one of Don Ricardo’s silk nightcaps, contemplating 
Bang’s appearance, as he sat in disconsolate mood in his chair 
at the head of the table, with the fag-end of a cigar in the 
corner of his cheek. 

“ Now, Bang,” said Transom, “ turn in, and let us have a 
snooze, will ye? ” 

Bang did not seem to like it much. 

“ Zounds, Transom, did you ever hear of a gentleman being 
put to bed on a table ? Why, it must be a quiz. Only fancy me 
dished out and served up like a great calipi in the shell ! How- 
ever, here goes — But surely this is in sorry taste ; we had our 
chocolate a couple of hours ago — capital it was, by the by — in 
vulgar Staffordshire china, and now they give us silver ” 

“ Be decent, Bang,” cut in the skipper, who was by this 
time more than half asleep. “ Be decent, and go to bed — 
that’s a good fellow.” 

“ Ah, well ” — Aaron undressed himself, and lay down ; and 
there he was laid out, with a candle on each side of his head, 
his red face surmounted by a redder handkerchief tied round 
his head, sticking out above the white sheet; and supported by 
Captain Transom and myself, one on each side. All was now 
quiet. I got up and put out the candles, and as I fell asleep, 
I could hear Aaron laughing to himself — “ Dished, and served 
up, deuced like Saint Barts. I was intended for a doctor, 
Tom, you must know. I hope the Don is not a medical ama- 
teur; I trust he won’t have a touch at me before morning. 
Rum subject I should make — he! he!” All was silent for 
some time. 

“ Hillo ! — what is that ? ” said Aaron again, as if suddenly 
aroused from his slumbers — “ I say, none of your fun. Tran- 
som.” 

# A large bat was fluffing about, and I could hear him occa- 
sionally whir near our faces. 

“ Oh, a bat — hate bats — how the skipper snores ! I hope 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


291 


there be no resurrection-men in St Jago, or I shall be stolen 
away to a certainty before morning. How should I look as a 
skeleton in a glass-case, eh ? ” 

I heard no more, until, it might be, about midnight, when I 
was awakened, and frightened out of my wits, by Bang rolling 
off the table on to my quatre, which he broke in his fall, and 
then we both rolled over and over on the floor. 

“ Murder ! ” roared Bang. “ I am bewitched and bedevilled. 
Murder ! a scorpion has dropped from the roof into my mouth, 
and stung me on the nose. Murder! Tom — Tom Cringle — 
Captain — Transom, my dear fellows, awake and send for the 
doctor. Oh my wig — oh dear — oh dear ” 

At this uproar I could hear Don Ricardo striking a light, 
and presently he appeared with a candle in his hand, more 
than half naked, with la senora peering through the half- 
opened door behind him. 

“ Ave Maria purissima — what is the matter? Where is 
el Senor Bang ? ” 

“ Mucho, mucho” shouted Bang from below the table. 
11 Send for a doctoribus, Senor Richardum. I am dead and 
Mother thing — help ! — help ! ” 

“ Dios guarda usted” again ejaculated Campana. “ What 
has befallen him ? ” addressing the skipper, who was by this 
time on his head’s antipodes in bed, rubbing his eyes, and in 
great amazement. 

“ Tell him, my dear Transom, that a scorpion fell from the 
roof, and stung me on the nose.” 

“ What says he ? ” inquired the Spaniard. 

Poor Transom’s intellect was at this time none of the clear- 
est, being more than half asleep, and not quite so sober as a 
hermit is wont to be; besides, he must needs speak Spanish, of 
which he was by no means master, which led to a veVy comical 
blunder. Alacran, in Spanish, means scorpion, and Cayman, 
an alligator, not very similar in sound, certainly, but the ter- 
mination being the same, he selected in the hurry the wrong 
phrase. 

“ He says,” replied Transom in bad Spanish, “ that he has 
swallowed an alligator, or something of that sort, sir.” Then 
a loud yawn. 

“ Swallowed a what?” rejoined Campana, greatly aston- 
ished. 

“ No, no,” snorted the captain — “ I am wrong — he says he 
has been stung by an alligator.” 

“ Stung by an alligator ? — impossible.” 

“ Why, then,” persisted the skipper, “ if he be not stung by 
an alligator, or if he has not really swallowed one, at all 


292 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


events, an alligator has either stung or swallowed him — so 
make the most of it, Don Ricardo.” 

“ Why, this is absurd, with all submission,” continued 
Campana ; “ how the deuce could he swallow an alligator, or 
an alligator get into my house to annoy him ? ” 

“D — n it,” said Transom, half tipsy, and very sleepy, 
“ that’s his look out. You are very unreasonable, Don 
Ricardo ; all that is the affair of friend Bang and the alliga- 
tor ; my purpose is solely to convey his meaning faithfully "■ — 
a loud snore. 

“ Oh,” said Campana, laughing, “I see, I see; I left your 
friend sobre mesa , [on the table,] but now I see he is sub 
rosa 

“ Help, good people, help ! ” roared Bang — “ help, or my 
nose will reach from this to the Moro Castle — Help ! ” 

We got him out, and were I to live a thousand years, which 
would be a tolerably good spell, I don’t think I could forget 
his appearance. His nose, usually the smallest article of the 
kind that I ever saw, was now sw'ollen as large as my fist, and 
as purple as a mulberry — the distension of the skin, from the 
venomous sting of the reptile — for stung he had been by a 
scorpion — made it semi-transparent, so that it looked like a 
large blob of currant jelly hung on a peg in the middle of his 
face, or a gigantic leech, gorged with blood, giving his visage 
the semblance of some grotesque old-fashioned dial, with a 
fantastic gnomon. 

“A poultice — a poultice — a poultice, good people, or I 
shall presently be all nose together,” — and a poultice was 
promptly manufactured from mashed pumpkin, and he was 
put to bed, with his face covered up with it, as if an Italian 
artist had been taking a cast of his beauties in plaster of 
Paris. 

In the application of this said poultice, however, we had 
nearly extinguished poor Aaron amongst us, by suffocating 
him outright; for the skipper, who was the operating sur- 
geon in the first instance, with me for his mate, clapped a 
whole ladleful over his mouth and nose, which, besides being 
scalding hot, sealed those orifices effectually, and, indeed, 
about a couple of tablespoonfuls had actually been forced 
down his gullet, notwithstanding his struggles, and excla- 
mations of “ Pumpkin — bad — softened with castor oil — d — n 
it, skipper, you’ll choke me” — spurt — sputter — sputter — 
“ choke me, man.” 

“ Cuidado,” said Don Ricardo ; “ let me manage” — and he 
got a small tube of wild cane, which he stuck into Bang’s 
mouth, through a hole in the poultice-cloth, and set a negro 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


293 


servant to watch that it did not sink into his gullet, as he 
fell asleep, and with instructions to take the poultice off 
whenever the pain abated; and there he lay on his back, 
whistling through this artificial beak, like a sick snipe. 

At length, however, all hands of us seemed to have fallen 
asleep ; but towards the dawning I was awakened by repeated 
bursts of suppressed laughter, and upon looking in the 
direction from whence the sounds proceeded, I was surprised 
beyond all measure to observe Transom in a corner of the 
room in his trowsers and shirt, squatted like a tailor on his 
hams, with one of the sable damsels on her knees beside him 
holding a candle, while his Majesty’s Post Captain was ply- 
ing his needle in a style and with a dexterity that would have 
charmed our friend Stultze exceedingly, and every now and 
then bending double over his work, and swinging his body 
backwards and forwards, with the water welling from his 
eyes, laughing all the while like to choke himself. As for his 
bronze candlestick, I thought she would have expired on the 
spot, with her white teeth glancing like ivory, and the tears 
running down her cheeks, as she every now and then clapped 
a handkerchief on her mouth to smother the uncontrollable 
uproariousness of her mirth. 

“ Why, captain, what spree is this ? ” said I. 

“ Never you mind, but come here. I say, Mr Cringle, do 
you see him piping away there” — and there he was, sure 
enough, still gurgling through the wild cane — with his black 
guardian, whose province it was to have removed the poul- 
tice, sound asleep, snoring in the huge chair at Bang’s head, 
wherein he had established himself, while the candle at his 
patient’s cheek was flickering in the socket. 

My superior was evidently bent on wickedness. 

“ Get up and put on your trowsers, man.” 

I did so. 

“ Now wait a bit till I cooper him — Here, my darling” — 
to the sable virgin, who was now on the qui vive, bustling 
about — “ here,” said the captain, sticking out a leg of Bang’s 
trowsers, “ hold you there, my dear ” 

She happened to be a native of Haiti, and comprehended 
his French. 

— “ Now, hold you that, Mr Cringle.” 

I took hold of the other leg, and held it in a fitting position, 
while Transom deliberately sewed them both up. 

“ Now for the coat sleeves” — 

We sealed them in a similar manner. 

“ So — now for his shirt.” 

We sewed up the stem, and then the stern, converting it 


294 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


into an outlandish-looking pillow-case, and finally both 
sleeves; and last of all, we got two live land-crabs from the 
servants, by dint of persuasion and a little plata , and clapped 
one into each stocking foot. 

We then dressed ourselves, and when all was ready, we 
got a piece of tape for a lanyard, and made one end fast to 
the handle of a large earthen water- jar, full to the brim, 
which we placed on Bang’s pillow, and passed the other end 
round the neck of the sleeping negro. 

“ Now get you to bed,” said the captain to the dingy hand- 
maiden, “ and stand by to be off, Mr Cringle.” 

He stepped to Don Ricardo’s bedroom door, and tapped 
loudly. 

“ Hillo ! ” quoth the Don. On this hint, like men spring- 
ing a mine, the last who leave the sap, we sprang into the 
street, when the skipper turned, and taking aim with a large 
custard-apple which he had armed himself with, (I have 
formerly described this fruit as resembling a russet bag of 
cold pudding,) he let fly. Spin flew the apple — bash on the 
blackamoor’s obtuse snout. He started back, and in his 
terror and astonishment threw a somersault over the back of 
his chair — gush poured the water — smash fell the pipkin — 
“ murder” roared Bang, dashing off the poultice-cast, with 
such fury that it lighted in the street — and away we raced 
at the top of our speed. 

We ran as fast as our legs could carry us for two hundred 
yards, and then turning, walked deliberately home again, as 
if we had been out taking a walk in the cool morning air. 

As we approached, we heard the yells of a negro, and Bang 
high in oath. 

“ You black rascal, nothing must serve your turn but prac- 
tising your John Canoe tricks upon a gentleman — take that, 
you villain, as a small recompense for floating me out of my 
bed — or rather off the table,” and the ludicrousness of his 
couch seemed to come over the worthy fellow once more, and 
he laughed loud and long — “ Poor devil, I hope I have not 
hurt you? — here, Quashi, there’s a pistole, go buy a plaster 
for your broken pate.” 

By this we had returned in front of the house, and as we 
ascended the front stairs, we again heard a loud racketing 
within; but blackie’s voice was now wanting in the row, 
wherein the Spaniard and our friend appeared to be the 
dramatis personae — and sure enough there was Don Ricardo 
and Bang at it, tooth and nail. 

“ Allow me to assist you,” quoth the Don. 

“ Oh no — mucho — mucho ” quoth Bang, who was spin- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


295 

ning round and round in his shirt on one leg, trying to 
thrust his foot into his trowsers; but the garment was im- 
pervious; and, after emulating N’oblet in a pirouette, he sat 
down in despair. We appeared — “ Ah, Transom, glad to see 
you — some evil spirit has bewitched me, I believe — overnight 
I was stung to death by a scorpion — half an hour ago I was 
deluged by an invisible spirit — and just now when I got up, 
nnd began to pull on my stockings, Lord ! a land-crab was 
in the toe part, and see how he has scarified me ” — forking 
up his peg — “ I then tried my trowsers,” he continued, in a 
most doleful tone — “ and lo ! the legs are sealed. And look 
at my face, saw you ever such an unfortunate ? But the devil 
take you, Transom, I see through your tricks now, and will 
pay you off for this yet, take my word for it.” 

The truth is, that our amigo Aaron had gotten an awful 
fright on his first awakening after his cold bath, for he had 
given the poor black fellow an ugly blow upon the face, be- 
fore he had gathered his senses well about him, and the 
next moment seeing the blood streaming from his nose, and 
mixing with the custard-like pulp of the fruit with which 
his face was plastered, he took it into his noddle that he had 
knocked the man’s brains out. However, we righted the 
worthy fellow the best way we could, and shortly afterwards 
coffee was brought, and Bang having got himself shaven and 
dressed, began to forget all his botherations. But before we 
left the house, madama, Don Ricardo’s better-half, insisted 
on anointing his nose with some mixture famous for reptile 
bites. His natural good-breeding made him submit to the 
application, which was neither more nor less than an infu- 
sion of indigo and ginger, with which the worthy lady 
painted our friend’s face and muzzle in a most ludicrous 
manner — it was heads and tails between him and an ancient 
Briton. Reefpoint at this moment appeared at the door with 
a letter from the merchant captains, which had been sent 
down to the corvette, regarding the time of sailing, and ac- 
quainting us when they would be ready. While Captain 
Transom was perusing it. Bang was practising Spanish at 
the expense of Don Ricardo, whom he had boxed into a cor- 
ner; but all his Spanish seemed to be scraps of schoolboy 
Latin, and I noticed that Campana had the greatest diffi- 
culty in keeping his countenance. At length Don Ricardo 
approached us — “ Gentlemen, I have laid out a little plan for 
the day; it is my wife’s saint’s day, and a holyday in the 
family, so we propose going to a coffee property of mine 
about ten miles from Santiago, and Staying till morning — 
What say you ? ” 


296 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


I chimed in — “ I fear, sir, that I shall be unable to accom- 
pany you, even if Captain Transom should be good enough 
to give me leave, as I have an errand to do for that unhappy 
young fellow that we spoke about last evening — some trin- 
kets which I promised to deliver; here they are” — and I pro- 
duced the miniature and crucifix. 

Campana winced — “ Unpleasant, certainly, lieutenant,” 
said he. 

“ I know it will be so myself, but I have promised ” 

“ Then far be it from me to induce you to break your 
promise,” said the worthy man. “ My son,” said he, gravely, 
“ the friar you saw yesterday is confessor to Don Picardo 
Cangrejo’s family; his reason for asking to obtain an inter- 
view with you was from its being known that you were 
active in capturing the unfortunate men with whom young 
Federico Cangrejo, his only son, was leagued. Oh that poor 
boy! Had you known him, gentlemen, as I knew him, poor, 
poor Federico ! ” 

u He was an awful villain, however, you must allow,” said 
the captain. 

“ Granted in the fullest sense, my dear sir,” rejoined Cam- 
pana ; “ but we are all frail, erring creatures, and he was 
hardly dealt by. He is now gone to his heavy account, and 
I may as well tell you the poor boy’s sad story at once. Had 
you but seen him in his prattling infancy, in his sunny boy- 
hood ! 

“ He was the only son of a rich old father, an honest but 
worldly man, and of a most peevish, irascible temper. Poor 
Federico, and his sister Francisca, his only sister, were often 
cruelly used; and his orphan cousin, my sweet god-daughter, 
Maria Olivera, their playmate, was, if any thing, more 
harshly treated; for although his mother was and is a most 
excellent woman, and always stood between them and the 
old man’s ill temper, yet at the time I speak of she had 
returned to Spain, where a long period of ill health detained 
her for upwards of three years. Federico by this time was 
nineteen years of age, tall, handsome, and accomplished be- 
yond all the youth of his rank and time of life in Cuba : But 
you have seen him, gentlemen — in his extremity, it is true 
— yet, fallen as he was, I mistake if you thought him a 
common man. For good, or for evil, my heart told me he 
would be conspicuous, and I was, alas the day! too true a 
prophet. His attachment to his cousin, who, on the death 
of her mother, had become an inmate of Don Picardo’s house, 
had been evident to all but the purblind old man for a long 
time; and when he did discover it, he imperatively for- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


297 


bade all intercourse between them, as, forsooth, he had pro- 
jected a richer match for him, and shut Maria up in a corner 
of his large mansion. Federico, haughty and proud, could 
not stomach this. He ceased to reside at his father’s estate, 
which had been confided to his management, and began to 
frequent the billiard- table, and monte- table, and taverns, and 
in a thousand ways gave, from less to more, such unendur- 
able offence, that his father at length shut his door against 
him, and turned him, with twenty doubloons in his pocket, 
into the street. 

“ Friends interceded, for the feud soon became public, and, 
amongst others, I essayed to heal it; and with the fond, al- 
though passionate father, I easily succeeded; but how true 
it is, that ‘ evil communication corrupts good manners ! ’ I 
found Federico by this time linked in bands of steel with a 
junto of desperadoes, whose calling was any thing but equiv- 
ocal, and implacable to a degree, that, knowing him as I 
had known him, I had believed impossible. But, alas! the 
human heart is indeed desperately wicked. I struggled long 
with the excellent Father Carera to bring about a reconcilia- 
tion, and thought we had succeeded, as Federico was induced 
to return to his father’s house once more, and for many 
days and weeks we all flattered ourselves that he had re 
formed; until one morning, about four months ago, he was 
discovered coming out of his cousin’s room about the dawn- 
ing by his father, who immediately charged him with seduc- 
ing his ward. High words ensued. Poor Maria rushed out 
and threw herself at her uncle’s feet. The old man, in a 
transport of fury, kicked her on the face as she lay pros- 
trate; whereupon, God help me, he was felled to the earth 
by his own flesh, and bone, and blood — by his abandoned 
son. 

4 What rein can hold licentious wickedness. 

When down the hill he holds his fierce career ? ’ 

“The rest is soon told; — he joined the pirate vessel at 
Puerto Escondido, and, from his daring and reckless intre- 
pidity, soon rose to command amongst them, and was pro- 
ceeding in his infernal career, when the God whom he had 
so fearfully defied, at length sent him to expiate his crimes 
on the scaffold.” 

“ But the priest ” said I, much excited. 

“ True,” continued Don Ricardo, “Padre Carera brought 
a joint message from his poor mother and sister, and — and, 

oh my darling god-child, my heart-sister Maria! ” And 

the kind old man wept bitterly. I was greatly moved. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


298 

“ Why, Mr Cringle,” said Transom, “if you have promised 
to deliver the trinkets in 'propria persona, there’s an end, 
take leave — nothing doing down yonder — send Tailtackle 
for clothes. Mr Reef point, go to the boat and send up Tail- 
tackle; so go you must to these unfortunates, and we shall 
then start on our cruise to the coffee estate, with our worthy 
host.” 

“Why,” said Campana; “the family are in the country; 
they live about four miles from Santiago, on the very road 
to my property, and we shall call on our way; but I don’t 
much admire these interviews — there will be a scene, I 
fear ” 

“ Not on my part,” said I ; “ but call I must, for I solemnly 
promised” — and presented the miniature to Don Ricardo. 

Campana looked at it. It was exquisitely finished, and 
represented a most beautiful girl, a dark, large-eyed, spark- 
ling, Spanish beauty. “ Oh, my dear, dear child,” murmured 
Don Ricardo, “ how like this was to what you were; how 
changed you are now from what it is — alas ! alas ! But come, 
gentlemen, my wife is ready, and my two nieces,” — the 
pretty girls who were of our party the previous evening — 
“and here are the horses.” 

At this moment the little midshipman, Master Reefpoint, 
a great favourite of mine, by the by, reappeared, with Tail- 
tackle behind him, carrying my bundle. I was regularly 
caught, as the clothes, on the chance of a lark, had been 
brought from the ship, although stowed out of sight under 
the stern-sheets of the boat. 

“ Here are your clothes, Mr Cringle,” quoth middy. 

“ Devil confound your civility,” internally murmured I. 

The captain twigged, and smiled. Upon which little Reefy 
stole up to me — “ Lord, Mr Cringle, could you but get me 
leave to go, it would be such a ” 

“ Hold your tongue, boy, how can I ” 

Transom struck in — “ Master Reefpoint, I see what you 
are driving at; but how shall the Firebrand be taken care 
of when you are away, eh? besides, you have no clothes, and 
we shall be away a couple of days, most probably.” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, I have clothes ; I have a hair-brush and a 
tooth-brush, and two shirt-collars, in my waistcoat pocket.” 

“Very well, can we venture to lumber our kind friends 
with this giant, Mr Cringle, and can we really leave the ship 
without him ? ” Little Reefy was now all alive. “ Tail- 
tackle, go on board — say we shall be back to dinner the day 
after to-morrow,” said the captain. 

We now made ready for the start, and certainly the caval- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


299 


cade was rather a remarkable one. First, there was an old 
lumbering family volante , a sort of gig, with four posts or up- 
rights supporting a canopy covered with leather, and with 
a high dash-iron or splash-board in front. There were cur- 
tains depending from this canopy, which on occasion could 
be let down, so as to cover in the sides and front. The whole 
was of the most clumsy workmanship that can be imagined, 
and hung by untanned leather straps in a square wooden 
frame, from the front of which again protruded two shafts, 
straight as Corinthian pillars, and equally substantial, em- 
bracing an uncommonly fine mule, one of the largest and 
handsomest of the species which I had seen. The harness- 
ing partook of the same kind of unwieldy strength and 
solidity, and was richly embossed with silver and dirt. 
Astride on this mulo sat a household negro, with a huge 
thong of bullock’s hide in one hand, and the reins in the 
other. In this voiture were ensconced La Senora Campana, 
a portly concern, as already mentioned, two of her bright 
black-eyed laughing nieces, and Master Reefpoint, invisible 
as he lay smothered amongst the ladies, all to his little glazed 
cocked hat, and jabbering away in a most unintelligible 
fashion, so far as the young ladies, and eke the old one, were 
concerned. However, they appeared all mightily tickled by 
little Reefy, either mentally or physically, for off they trun- 
dled, laughing and skirling loud above the noise and creak- 
ing of the volante. Then came three small, ambling, stoutish 
long-tailed ponies, the biggest not above fourteen hands 
high; these were the barbs intended for mine host, the skip- 
per, and myself, caparisoned with high demipique old-fash- 
ioned Spanish saddles, mounted with silver stirrups, and 
clumsy bridles, with a ton of rusty iron in each poor brute’s 
mouth for a bit, and curbs like a piece of our chain cable, 
all very rich, and, as before mentioned with regard to the 
volante, far from clean. Their pace was a fast run, a com- 
pound of walk, trot, and canter, or rather of a trot and a 
canter, the latter broken down and frittered away through 
the instrumentality of a ferocious Mameluke bit, but as easy 
as an arm-chair; and this was, I speak it feelingly, a great 
convenience, as a sailor is not a Centaur, not altogether of a 
piece with his horse, as it were; yet both Captain Transom 
and myself were rather goodish horsemen for nauticals, al- 
though rather apt to go over the bows upon broaching-to 
suddenly. Don. Ricardo’s costume would have been thought 
a little out of the way in Leicestershire; most people put on 
their boots “ when they do a riding go,” but he chose to 
mount in shoes and white cotton stockings, and white jean 


300 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


small-clothes, with a flowing yellow-striped gingham coat, 
the skirts of which fluttered in the breeze behind him, his 
withered face shaded by a huge Panama hat, and with 
enormous silver spurs on his heels, the rowels two inches in 
diameter. 

Away lumbered the volant e, and away we pranced after it. 
For the first two miles the scenery was tame enough; but 
after that, the gently swelling eminences on each side of the 
road rose abruptly into rugged mountains; and the dell be- 
tween them, which had hitherto been verdant with waving 
guinea grass, became covered with large trees, under the 
dark shade of which we lost sight of the sun, and the con- 
trast made every thing around us for a time almost undis- 
tinguishable. The forest continued to overshadow the high 
road for two miles farther, only broken by a small cleared 
patch now and then, where the sharp-spiked limestone rocks 
shot up like minarets, and the fire-scathed stumps of the 
felled trees stood out amongst the rotten earth in the crevices, 
from which, however, sprang yams and cocoas, and peas of 
all kinds, and granadillos, and a profusion of herbs and roots, 
with the greatest luxuriance. 

At length we came suddenly upon a cleared space; a most 
beautiful spot of ground, where, in the centre of a green 
plot of velvet grass, intersected with numberless small walks, 
gravelled from a neighbouring rivulet, stood a large, one- 
story wooden edifice, built in the form of a square, with a 
court-yard in the centre. From the moistness of the atmos- 
phere, the outside of the unpainted weather-boarding had a 
green damp appearance, and so far as the house itself was 
concerned, there was an air of great discomfort about the 
place. A large open balcony ran round the whole house on 
the outside; and fronting us there was a clumsy wooden 
porch, supported on pillars, with the open door yawning be- 
hind it. 

The hills on both sides were cleared, and planted with 
most luxuriant coffee-bushes, and provision grounds, while 
the house was shaded by several splendid star-apple and 
kennip-trees, and there was a border of rich flowering shrubs 
surrounding it on all sides. The hand of woman had been 
there ! 

A few half-naked negroes were lounging about, and on 
hearing our approach they immediately came up and stared 
wildly at us. 

“ All fresh from the ship, these ” quoth Bang. 

“ Can’t be,” said Transom. “ Try and see.” 

I spoke some of the commonest Spanish expressions to 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


301 


them, but they neither understood them, nor could they an- 
swer me. But Bang was more successful in Eboe and Man- 
dingo, both of which he spoke fluently — accomplishments 
which I ought to have expected, by the by, when I declared 
he was little skilled in any tongue but English. 

Large herds of cattle were grazing on the skirts of the 
wood, and about one hundred mules were scrambling and 
picking their food in a rock river course which bisected the 
valley. The hills, tree-covered, rose around this solitary 
residence in all directions, as if it had been situated in the 
bottom of a punch-bowl; while a small water-fall, about 
thirty feet high, fell so near one of the corners of the build- 
ing, that when the wind set that way, as I afterward found, 
the spray moistened my hair through the open window in 
my sleeping apartment. We proceeded to the door and dis- 
mounted following the example of our host, and proceeded 
to help the gentlewomen to alight from the volante. When 
we all were accounted for in the porch, Don Ricardo began 
to shout, “ Criados, criados, ven aca — pendejos, ven acd!” 
The call was- for some time unattended to; at length, two 
tall, good-looking, decently-dressed negroes made their ap- 
pearance, and took charge of our bestias and carriage; but 
all this time there was no appearance of any living creature 
belonging to the family. 

The dark hall, into which the porch opened, was paved 
with the usual diamond-shaped bricks and tiles, but was not 
ceiled, the rafters of the roof being exposed; there was little 
or no furniture in it, that we could see, except a clumsy 
table in the centre of the room, and one or two of the 
leathern-backed reclining chairs, such as Whiffle used to 
patronize. Several doors opened from this comfortless saloon, 
which was innocent of paint, into other apartments, one of 
which was ajar. 

“Estrano,” murmured Don Ricardo, “muy estrano!” 

“ Coolish reception this, Tom,” quoth Aaron Bang. 

“ Deucedly so,” said the skipper. 

But Campana, hooking his little fat wife under his arm, 
while we did the agreeable to the nieces, now addressed him- 
self to enter, with the constant preliminary ejaculation of 
all well-bred Spaniards in crossing a friend’s threshold, “ Ave 
Maria purissima,” when we were checked by a loud tearing 
fit of coughing, which seemed almost to suffocate the patient, 
and female voices in great alarm, proceeding from the room 
beyond. 

Presently a little anatomy of a man presented himself at 
the door of the apartment, wringing his hands, and appar- 


302 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


ently in great misery. Campana and his wife, with all the 
alacrity of kind-hearted people, immediately went up to 
him, and said something which I did not overhear, but the 
poor creature to whom they spoke appeared quite bewildered. 
“ What it is, Don Picador ? ” at length we could hear Cam- 
pana say — “ what is it ? Is it my poor dear Maria who is 
worse, or what — speak, man — may my wife enter ? ” 

“Si, si — yes, yes,” said the afflicted Don Picador — “yes, 
yes, let her go in — send — for I am unable to think or act — 
send one of my people back post to Santiago for the doctor — 
haste, haste. Sangre — hecha sangre por la boca 

“Good God, why did you not say so before?” rejoined 
Campana. 

Here his wife called loudly to her husband, “Ricardo, 
Ricardo, por amor de su alma, manda por el medico — she has 
burst a blood-vessel — Maria is dying ! ” 

“ Let me mount myself ; I will go myself.” And the ex- 
cellent man rushed for the door, when the poor heartbroken 
Picador clung to his knees. 

“ No, no, don’t leave me. Send some one else ” 

“ Take care man, let me go ” 

Transom and I volunteered in a breath — “ No, no, I will 
go myself,” continued Don Ricardo ; “ let go, man — God help 
me, the old creature is crazed — el viejo no vale.” 

“ Here, here ! help, Don Ricardo ! ” cried his wife. 

Off started Transom for the doctor, and into the room 
rushed Don Picador and Campana, and, from the sounds in 
the sick chamber, all seemed bustle and confusion; at length 
the former appeared to be endeavouring to lift the poor 
sufferer, so as to enable her to sit up in bed; in the mean- 
time her coughing had gradually abated into a low suffocat- 
ing convulsive gasp. 

“ So, so, lift her up, man,” we could hear Campana say; 
“ lift her up — quick — or she will be suffocated.” 

At length, in a moment of great irritation, excited on the 
one hand by his intense interest in the poor suffering girl, 
and anger at the peevish, helpless Don Picador, Don Ricardo, 
to our unutterable surprise, rapped out, in gude broad Scotch, 
as he brushed away Senor Cangrejo from the bedside with a 
violence that spun him out of the door — “ God, the auld 
doited deevil is as fusionless as a docken.” 

My jaw dropped — I was thunderstruck — Bang’s eye met 
mine — “ Murder ! ” quoth Bang, so soon as his astonishment 
let him collect breath enough, “and here I have been for two 
whole days practising Spanish, to my great improvement 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 303 

no doubt, upon a Scotchman — how edified he must have 
been ! ” 

“ But the docken, man,” said I ; fusionless as a docJcen — 
how classic ! what an exclamation to proceed from the mouth 
of a solemn Don ! ” 

“ No gibes regarding the docken,” promptly chimed in 
Bang ; “ it is a highly respectable vegetable, let me tell you, 
and useful on occasion, which is more.” 

The noise in the room ceased, and presently Campana 
joined us. “ We must proceed,” said he, “ it will never do 
for you to deliver the jewels now , Mr Cringle; she is too 
much excited already, even from seeing me.-” 

But it was more easy to determine on proceeding than to 
put it in execution, for a heavy cloud, that had been over- 
hanging the small valley the whole morning, had by this 
time spread out and covered the entire face of nature like a 
sable pall ; the birds of the air flew low, and seemed perfectly 
gorged with the superabundance of flies, which were thickly 
betaking themselves for shelter under the evergreen leaves 
of the bushes. All the winged creation, great and small, were 
fast hastening to the cover of the leaves and branches of the 
trees. The cattle were speeding to the hollows under the 
impending rocks; negroes, men, women, and children, were 
hurrying with their hoes on their shoulders past the windows 
to their huts. Several large bloodhounds had ventured into 
the hall, and were crouching with a low whine at our feet. 
The huge carrion-crows were the only living things which 
seemed to brave the approaching chubasco, and were soaring 
high up in the heavens, appearing to touch the black agitated 
fringe of the lowering thunder clouds. All other kinds of 
winged creatures, parrots and pigeons, and cranes, had 
vanished by this time under the thickest trees, and into the 
deepest coverts, and the wild-ducks were shooting past in 
long lines, piercing the thick air with outstretched neck and 
clanging wing. 

Suddenly the wind fell, and the sound of the waterfall in- 
creased, and grew rough and loud, and the undefinable rush- 
ing noise that precedes a heavy fall of rain in the tropics, 
the voice of the wilderness, moaned through the high woods, 
until at length the clouds sank upon the valley in boiling 
mists, rolling half way down the surrounding hills; and the 
water of the stream, whose scanty rill but an instant before 
hissed over the precipice, in a small transparent ribbon of 
clear glass-green, sprinkled with white foam, and then 
threaded its way round the large rocks in its capacious chan- 
nel, like a silver eel twisting through a dry desert, now 


304 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


changed in a moment to a dark turgid chocolate colour; and 
even as we stood and looked, lo! a column of water from 
the mountains pitched in thunder over the face of the preci- 
pice, making the earth tremble, and driving up from the 
rugged face of the everlasting rocks in smoke, and forcing 
the air into eddies and sudden blasts, which tossed the 
branches of the trees that overhung it, as they were dimly 
seen through the clouds of drizzle, as if they had been shaken 
by a tempest, although there was not a breath stirring else- 
where out of heaven; while little wavering spiral wreaths of 
mist rose up thick from the surface of the boiling pool at the 
bottom of the cataract, like miniature water-spouts, until 
they were dispersed by the agitation of the air above. 

At length the swollen torrent rolled roaring down the nar- 
row valley, filling the whole water-course, about fifty yards 
wide, and advancing with a solid front a fathom high — 
a fathom deep does not convey the idea — like a stream of 
lava, or as one may conceive of the Red Sea, when at the 
stretching forth of the hand of the prophet of the Lord, its 
mighty waters rolled back and stood heaped up as a wall to 
the host of Israel. The channel of the stream, which but 
a minute before I could have leaped across, was the next 
instant filled, and utterly impassable. 

“You can’t possibly move,” said Don Picador ; “you can 
neither go on nor retreat ; you must stay until the river sub- 
sides.” And the rain now began pattering in large drops, 
like scattering shots preceding an engagement, on the 
wooden shingles with which the house was roofed, gradually 
increasing to a loud rushing noise, which, as the rooms were 
not ceiled, prevented a word being heard. 

Don Ricardo began to fret and fidget most awfully — “ Be- 
ginning of the seasons — why, we may not get away for a 
week, and all the ships will be kept back in their loading.” 

All this time, the poor sufferer’s tearing cough was heard 
in the lulls of the rain ; but it gradually became less and less 
severe, and the lady of the house, and Senora Campana, and 
Don Picador’s daughter, at length slid into the room on tip- 
toe, leaving one of Don Ricardo’s nieces in the room with 
the sick person. 

“ She is asleep — hush.” The weather continued as bad as 
ever, and we passed a very comfortless forenoon of it, Pica- 
dor, Campana, Bang, and myself, perambulating the large 
dark hall, while the ladies were clustered together in a corner 
with their work. At length the weather cleared, and I could 
get a glimpse of mine hostess and her fair daughter. The 
former was a very handsome woman, about forty ; she was 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


305 


tall, and finely formed; her ample figure set oil by the very 
simple, yet, to my taste, very elegant dress formerly de- 
scribed; it was neither more nor less than the plain black 
silk petticoat over a chemise, made full at the bosom, with 
a great quantity of lace frills; her dark glossy hair was 
gathered on the crown of her head in one long braid, twisted 
round and round, and rising up like a small turret. Over 
all she wore a loose shawl of yellow silk crape. But the 
daughter, I never shall forget her! Tall and full, and mag- 
nificently shaped — every motion was instinct with grace. 
Her beautiful black hair hung a yard down her back, long 
and glossy, in three distinct braids, while it was shaded, 
Madonna-like, off her high and commanding forehead; her 
eyebrows — to use little Reefy’s simile — looked as if cut out 
of a mouse’s skip; and her eyes themselves, large, dark and 
soft, yet brilliant and sparkling at the same time, however 
contradictory this may read; her nose was straight, and her 
cheeks firm and oval, and her mouth, her full lips, her ivory 
teeth, her neck and bosom, were perfect, the latter if any- 
thing giving promise of too matronly a womanhood; but at 
the time I saw her, nothing could have been more beautiful ; 
and, above all, there was an inexpressible charm in the clear 
transparent darkness of her colourless skin, into which you 
thought you could look; her shoulders, and the upper part of 
her arms, were peculiarly beautiful. Nothing is so exqui- 
sitely lovely as the upper part of a beautiful woman’s arm, 
and yet we have lived to see this admirable teature shrouded 
and lost in those abominable gigots. — I say, messmate, lend a 
hand, and originate a crusade against those vile appendages. 
I will lead into action if you like, — “ Wo unto the women 
that sew pillows to all arm-holes,” Ezekiel, xiii. 18. May I 
venture on such a quotation in such a pace? — She was ex- 
tremely like her brother ; and her fine face was overspread 
with the pale cast of thought — a settled melancholy, like the 
shadow of a cloud in a calm day on a summer landscape, 
mantled over her fine features ; and although she moved with 
the air of a princess, and was possessed of that natural polite- 
ness which far surpasses all artificial polish, yet the heavi- 
ness of her heart was apparent in every motion, as well as in 
all she said. 

Many people labour under an unaccountable delusion, 
imagining, in their hallucination, that a Frenchwoman, for 
instance, or even an Englishwoman — nay, some have been 
heard to say that a Scotchwoman — has been known to walk. 
Egregious errors all! An Irishwoman of the true Milesian 
descent can walk a step or two sometimes, but all other 


306 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


women, fair or brown, short or tall, stout or thin, only stump, 
shuffle, jig, or amble — none but a Spaniard can walk. 

Once or twice she tried to enter into conversation with me 
on indifferent subjects ; but there was a constant tendency 
to approach (against her own pre-arranged determination) 
the one, all-absorbing one, the fate of her poor brother. “ Oh, 
had you but known him, Mr Cringle — had you but known 
him in his boyhood, before bad company had corrupted 
him ! ” exclaimed she, after having asked me if he died peni- 
tent, and she turned away and wept. “ Francisca,” said a low 
hoarse female voice from the other room; “Francisca, ven 
acd, mi querida hermana.” The sweet girl rose, and sped 
across the floor with the grace of Taglioni, (oh, the legs Tag- 
lionis! as poor dear Bang would have ventured to have said, 
if the sylphide had then been known,) and presently return- 
ing, whispered something to her mother, who rose and drew 
Don Picador aside. The waspish old man shook himself 
clear of his wife, as he said with indecent asperity — “ No, 
no, she will but make a fool of herself.” 

His wife drew herself up, — 

“ She never made a fool of herself, Don Picador, but once ; 
and God forgive those who were the cause of it! It is not 
kind of you, indeed, it is not.” 

“ Well, well,” rejoined the querulous old man, “do as you 
will, do as you will, — always crossing me, always crossing.” 

His wife took no farther notice, but stepped across the 
room to me, — “Our poor dying Maria knows you are here ; 
and probably you are not aware that he wrote to her after 
his” — her voice quivered — “ after his condemnation, the 
night before he suffered, that you were the only one who 
shewed him kindness; and she has also read the newspapers 
giving an account of the trial. She wishes to see you — will 
you pleasure her? Senora Campana has made her ac- 
quainted that you are the bearer of some trinkets belonging 
to him, from which she infers that you witnessed his last 
moments, as one of them, she was told, was her picture, poor 
dear girl; and she knew that must have grown to his heart 
till the last. But it will be too agitating. I will try and dis- 
suade her from the interview until the doctor comes, at 
all events.” 

The worthy lady stepped again into Maria’s apartment, 
and I could not avoid hearing what passed. 

“ My dear Maria, Mr Cringle has no objection to wait on 
you; but after your severe attack this morning, I don’t think 
it will be wise. Delay it until Dr Bergara comes — at any 
rate, until the evening, Maria.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


307 


“ Mother,” she said, in a weak, plaintive voice, although 
husky from the phlegm which was fast coagulating in her 
throat — “ Mother, I have already ceased to be of this world ; 
I am dying, dearest mother, fast dying; and oh, thou All- 
good and All-merciful Being, against whom I have fearfully 
sinned, would that the last struggle were now o’er, and that 
my weary spirit were released, and my shame hidden in the 
silent tomb, and my sufferings and very name forgotten ! ” 
She paused and gasped for breath; I thought it was all over 
with her ; but she rallied again and proceeded — “ Time is 
rapidly ebbing from me, dearest mother, — for mother I must 
call you, more than a mother have you been to me — and the 
ocean of eternity is opening to my view. If I am to see him 
at all, I must see him now; I shall be more agitated by the 
expectation of the interview than by seeing him at once. 
Oh ! let me see him now, let me look on one who witnessed 
his last moments.” 

I could see Senor Cangrejo where she stood. She crossed 
her hands on her bosom, and looked up towards heaven, and 
then turned mournfully towards me, and beckoned me to 
approach. I entered the small room, which had been fitted 
up by the poor girl with some taste; the furniture was better 
than any I had seen in a Spanish house before, and there 
was a mat on the floor, and some exquisite miniatures and 
small landscapes on the walls. It was her boudoir, opening 
apparently in a bedroom beyond. It was lighted by a large 
open unglazed window, with a row of wooden balustrades 
beyond it, forming part of a small balcony. A Carmelite 
friar, a venerable old man, with the hot tears fast falling 
from his eyes over his wrinkled cheeks, whom I presently 
found to be the excellent Padre Carera, sat in a large chair 
by the bedside, with a silver cup in his hand, beside which 
lay a large crucifix of the same metal ; he had just admin- 
istered extreme uncticn, and the viaticum, he fondly hoped, 
would prove a passport for his dear child to another and a 
better world. As I entered he rose, held out his hand to me, 
and moved round to the bottom of the bed. 

The shutters had been opened, and, with a suddenness 
which no one can comprehend who has not lived in these 
climates, the sun now shone brightly on the flowers and 
garden plants which grew in a range of pots on the balcony, 
and lighted up the pale features of a lovely girl, lovely even 
in the jaws of death, as she lay with her face towards the 
light, supported in a reclining position on cushions, on a red 
morocco mattrass, laid on a sort of frame or bed. 


3°8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Light was her form, and darkly delicate 
That brow, whereon her native sun had sat, 

But had not marr’d.”— 

She was tall, so far as I could judge, but oh, how attenu- 
ated ! Her lower limbs absolutely made no impression on 
the mattrass, to which her frame appeared to cling, giving a 
ghastly conspicuousness to the oedematous swelling of her 
feet, and to her person, for, alas ! she was in a way to have 
become a mother — 

“ The offspring of his wayward youth. 

When he betray’d Bianca’s truth ; 

The maid whose folly could confide 
In 7iim, who made her not his bride.” 

Her hand, grasping her pocket handkerchief, drenched, alas, 
with blood, hung over the side of the bed, thin and pale, 
with her long, taper fingers as transparent as if they had 
been fresh cut alabaster, with the blue veins winding through 
her wrists, and her bosom wasted and shrunk, and her neck 
no thicker than her arm, with the pulsations of the large 
arteries as plain and evident as if the skin had been a film, 
and her beautiful features, although now sharpened by the 
near approaching death agony, her lovely mouth, her straight 
nose, her arched eyebrows, black, like penciled jet lines, and 
her small ears, — and oh, who can describe her rich black 
raven hair, lying combed out, and spread all over the bed and 
pillow? She was dressed in a long loose gown of white 
crape; it looked like a winding sheet; but the fire of her 
eyes — I have purposely not ventured to describe them — the 
unearthly brilliancy of her large, full, swimming eye! 

When I entered, I bowed, and remained standing near the 
door. She said something, but in so low a voice that I could 
not catch the words; and when I stepped nearer, on purpose 
to hear more distinctly, all at once the blood mantled in her 
cheeks, and forehead, and throat, like the last gleam of the 
setting sun; but it faded as rapidly, and once more she lay 
pale as her smock — 

“ Yet not such blush*' as mounts when health would shew 
All the heart’s hue in that delightful glow ; 

But ’twas a hectic tint of secret care. 

That for a burning moment fever’d there ; 

And the wild sparkle of her eye seem’d caught 
From high, and lighten’d with electric thought ; 

Though its black orb these long low lashes’ fringe 
Had temper’d with a melancholy tinge.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


309 


Her voice was becoming more and more weak, she said, 
so she must be prompt. “ You have some trinkets for me, 
Mr Cringle ? ” I presented them. She kissed the crucifix 
fervently, and then looked mournfully on her own miniature. 
“ This was thought like once , Mr Cringle. — Are the news- 
paper accounts of his trial correct?” she next asked. I 
answered that in the main facts they were. “ And do you 
believe in the commission of all these alleged atrocities by 
him?” I remained silent. “Yes, they are but too true. 
Hush, hush,” said she — “ look there.” 

I did as she requested. There, glancing bright in the 
sunshine, a most beautiful butterfly fluttered in the air, in 
the very middle of the open window. When we first saw it, 
it was flitting gaily and happily amongst the plants and 
flowers that were blooming in the balcony, but it gradually 
became more and more slow on the wing, and at last poised 
itself so unusually steady for an insect of its class, that even 
had Maria not spoken, it would have attracted my attention. 
Below it, on the window sill, near the wall, with head erect, 
and its little basilisk eyes upturned towards the lovely fly, 
crouched a camelion lizard; its beautiful body, when I first 
looked at it, was a bright sea-green. It moved into the sun- 
shine, a little away from the shade of the laurel bush, which 
grew on the side it first appeared on, and suddenly the back 
became transparent amber, the legs and belly continuing 
green. From its breast under its chin, it every now and 
then shot out a semicircular film of a bright scarlet colour, 
like a leaf of a tulip stretched vertically, or the pectoral fin 
of a fish. 

This was evidently a decoy and the poor fly was by degrees 
drawn down towards it, either under the impression of its 
being in reality a flower, or impelled by some impulse which 
it could not resist. It gradually fluttered nearer and more 
near, the reptile remaining all the while steady as a stone, 
until it made a sudden spring, and in the next moment the 
small mealy wings were quivering on each side of the came- 
lion’s tiny jaws. While in the act of gorging its prey, a 
little fork, like a wire, was projected from the opposite corner 
of the window; presently a small round black snout, with a 
pair of little fiery blasting eyes, appeared, and a thin black 
neck glanced in the sun. The lizard saw it. I could fancy 
it trembled. Its body became of a dark blue, then ashy pale; 
the imitation of the flower, the gaudy fin was withdrawn, it 
appeared to shrink back as far as it could, but it was nailed 
or fascinated to the window sill, for its feet did not move. 
The head of the snake approached, with its long forked 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 IQ 

tongue shooting out and shortening, and with a low hissing 
noise. By this time about two feet of its body was visible, 
lying with its white belly on the wooden beam, moving for- 
ward with a small horizontal wavy motion, the head and six 
inches of the neck being a little raised. I shrunk back from 
the serpent, but no one else seemed to have any dread of it; 
indeed, I afterwards learned, that this kind being good 
mousers, and otherwise quite harmless, were, if any thing, 
encouraged about houses in the country. I looked again; 
its open mouth was now within an inch of the lizard, which 
by this time seemed utterly paralyzed and motionless; the 
next instant its head was drawn into the snake’s mouth, and 
by degrees the whole body disappeared, as the reptile gorged 
it, and I could perceive from the lump which gradually 
moved down the snake’s neck, that it had been sucked into its 
stomach. Involuntarily I raised my hand, when the whole 
suddenly disappeared. 

I turned, I could scarcely tell why, to look at the dying 
girl. A transient flush had again lit up her pale wasted face. 
She was evidently greatly excited. “ Can you read me that 
riddle, Mr Cringle? Does no analogy present itself to you 
between what you have seen, between the mysterious power 
possessed by these subtile reptiles, and — Look — look again.” 

A large and still more lovely butterfly suddenly rose from 
beneath where the snake had vanished, all glittering in the 
dazzling sunshine, and, after fluttering for a moment, floated 
steadily up into the air, and disappeared in the blue sky. My 
eye followed it as long as it w r as visible, and when it once 
more declined to where we had seen the snake, I saw a most 
splendid dragonfly, about three inches long, like a golden 
bodkin, with its gauze-like wings moving so quickly, as it 
hung steadily poised in mid air, like a hawk preparing to 
stoop, that the body seemed to be surrounded by silver tissue, 
or a bright halo, while it glanced in the sunbeam. 

“ Can you not read it yet, Mr Cringle ? can you not read 
my story in the fate of the first beautiful fly, and the misera- 
ble end of my Federico, in that of the lizard? And oh, may 
the last appearance of that ethereal thing, which but now 
rose, and melted into the lovely sky, be a true type of what 
I shall be ! But the poor insect, that remains there suspended 
between heaven and earth, shall I say hell, what am I to 
think of it ? ” 

The dragonfly was still there. She continued — “ En pur- 
gatorio, ah Dios , tu quedas en purgatorio,” as if the fly had 
represented the unhappy young pirate’s soul in limbo. Oh, 
let no one smile at the quaintness of the dying fancy of the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


311 

poor heart-crushed girl. The weather began to lower again 
the wind came past us moaningly — the sun was obscured — 
large drops of rain fell heavily into the room — a sudden 
dazzling flash of lightning took place, and the dragonfly was 
no longer there. A long low wild cry was heard. I started, 
and my flesh creeped. The cry was repeated. “ Es el — el 
mismo, y ningun otro. Me venga, Federico ; me venga mi 
querido!” shrieked poor Maria, with a supernatural energy, 
and with such piercing distinctness, that it was heard shrill 
even above the rolling thunder. 

I turned to look at Maria — another flash. It glanced on 
the crucifix which the old priest had elevated at the foot of 
the bed, full in her view. It was nearer, the thunder was 
louder. “ Is that the raindrops which are falling heavily on 
the floor through the open window ? ” O God ! O God ! it 
is her warm heart’s blood, which was bubbling from her 
mouth like a crimson fountain. Her pale fingers were clasped 
on her bosom in the attitude of prayer — a gentle quiver of 
her frame — and the poor broken-hearted girl, and her un- 
born babe, “ sleeped the sleep that knows no waking.” 


Y 


CHAPTER XIV 

SCENES IN CUBA 

Ariel. Safely in harbour 

Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once 
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still- vex d Bermoothes— there she’s hid. 

The Tempest. 

The spirit had indeed fled — the ethereal essence had de- 
parted — and the poor wasted and blood-stained husk which 
lay before us, could no longer be moved by our sorrows, or 
gratified by our sympathy. Yet I stood riveted to the spot, 
until I was aroused by the deep-toned voice of Padre Carera, 
who, lifting up his hands towards heaven, addressed the 
Almighty in extempore prayer, beseeching his^mercy to our 
erring sister who had just departed. The unusualness of 
this startled me. — “As the tree falls, so must it lie,” had 
been the creed of my forefathers, and was mine; but now 
for the first time I heard a clergyman wrestling in mental 


3 12 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


agony, and interceding with the God who hath said, "Re- 
pent before the night cometli, in which no man can work/’ 
for a sinful creature, whose worn-out frame was now as a 
clod of the valley. But I had little time for consideration, 
as presently all the negro servants of the establishment set 
up a loud howl, as if they had lost their nearest and dearest. 
“ Oh, our poor dear young mistress is dead ! She has 
gone to the bosom of the Virgin! She is gone to be happy !” 
— “ Then why the deuce make such a yelling ? ” quoth Baug 
in the other room, when this had been translated to him. 
Glad to leave the chamber of death, I entered the large hall, 
where I had left our friend. 

“ I say, Tom — awful work. Hear how the rain pours, and 
— murder — such a flash! Why, in Jamaica, we don’t startle 
greatly at lightning, but absolutely I heard it hiss — there, 
again” — the noise of the thunder stopped farther colloquy, 
and the wind now burst down the valley with a loud roar. 

Don Ricardo joined us. “ My good friends, we are in a 
scrape here — what is to be done? — a melancholy affair alto- 
gether.” — Bang’s curiosity here fairly got the better of him. 

“ I say, Don Ricardibus, do — beg pardon, though — do give 
over this humbugging outlandish lingo of yours — speak like 
a Christian, in your mother tongue, and leave off your Span- 
ish, which now, since I know it is all a bam, seems to sit as 
strangely on you as my grandmother’s toupee would on Tom 
Cringle’s Mary.” 

‘'Now do, pray, Mr Bang,” said I, when Don Ricardo 
broke in — 

“ Why, Mr Bang, I am, as you now know, a Scotchman.” 

“ TTow do I know any such thing — that is, for a certainty 
— while you keep cruising amongst so many lingoes, as Tom 
there says ? ” 

“ The doclcen, man,” said I. — Don Ricardo smiled. 

“ I am a Scotchman, my dear sir ; and the same person 
who, in his youth, was neither more nor less than wee Richy 
Cloche, in the long town of Kirkaldy, is, in his old age, Don 
Ricardo Campana of St Jago de Cuba. But more of this 
anon, — at present we are in the house of mourning, and alas 
the day! that it should be so.” 

By this time the storm had increased most fearfully, and 
as Don Ricardo, Aaron, and myself, sat in the dark corner of 
the large gloomy hall, we could scarcely see each other, for 
the lightning had now ceased, and the darkness was so thick, 
that had it not been for the light from the large funeral wax 
tapers, which had been instantly lit upon poor Maria’s death, 
in the room where she lay, that streamed through the open 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 313 

door, we should have been unable to see our very fingers be- 
fore us. 

“ What is that ? ” said Campana ; “ beard you nothing, gen- 
tlemen ? ” 

“By this the storm grew loud apace. 

The water-wraith was shrieking; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking.” 

In the lulls of the rain and the blast, the same long low 
cry was heard which had startled me by Maria’s bedside, and 
occasioned the sudden and fatal exertion which had been the 
cause of the bursting out afresh of the blood-vessel. 

“ Why,” said I, “ it is little more than three o’clock in the 
afternoon yet, dark as it is; let us sally out, Mr Bang, for I 
verily believe that the hollo we have heard is my captain’s 
voice, and, if I conjecture rightly, he must have arrived at 
the other side of the river, probably with the doctor.” 

“ Why, Tom,” quoth Aaron, “ it is only three in the after- 
noon, as you say, although by the sky I could almost vouch 
for its being midnight; but I don’t like that shouting — Did 
you ever read of a water-kelpie, Don RichyV* 

“ Poo, poo, nonsense,” said the Don ; “ Mr Cringle is, I 
fear, right enough.” At this moment the wind thundered 
at the door and window shutters, and howled amongst the 
neighbouring trees and round the roof, as if it would have 
blown the house down upon our devoted heads. The cry was 
again heard during a momentary pause. 

“ Zounds ! ” said Bang, “ it is the skipper’s voice, as sure 
as fate — he must be in danger — let us go and see, Tom.” 

“ Take me with you,” said Campana, — the foremost al- 
ways when any good deed was to be done, — and, in place of 
clapping on his great-coat to meet the storm, to our unut- 
terable surprise, he began to disrobe himself, all to his trow- 
sers and large straw hat. He then called one of the servants, 
“ Trae me un lasso/* The lasso, a long thong of plaited hide, 
was forthwith brought; he coiled it up in his left hand. 
“ Now, Pedro,” said he to the negro servant who had fetched 
it, (a tall, strapping fellow,) “you and Gaspar follow me. 
Gentlemen, are you ready?” Gaspar appeared, properly ac- 
coutred with a long pole in one hand, and a thong similar to 
Don Ricardo’s in the other, he as well as his comrade being 
stark naked all to their waistcloths. “ Ah, well done, my 
sons,” said Don Ricardo, as both the negroes prepared to fol- 
low him. So off we started to the door, although we heard the 
tormenta raging without with appalling fury. Bang undid 
the latch, and the next moment he was flat on his back, the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 H 

large leaf having flown open with tremendous violence, cap- 
sizing him like an infant. 

The Padre, from the inner chamber, came to our assist- 
ance, and by our joint exertions we at length got the door 
to again and barricaded, after which, we made our exit from 
the lee-side of the house by a window. Under other cir- 
cumstances, it would have been difficult to refrain from 
laughing at the appearance we made. We were all drenched 
in an instant after we left the shelter of the house, and there 
was old Campana, naked to the waist, with his large sombrero 
and long pigtail hanging down his back, like a mandarin of 
twenty buttons. Next followed his two black assistants, 
naked as I have described them, all three with their coils of 
rope in their hands, like a hangman and his deputies; then 
advanced friend Bang and myself, without our coats or hats, 
with handkerchiefs tied round our heads, and our bodies 
bent down so as to stem the gale as strongly as we could. 

But the planting attorney — a great schemer, a kind of 
Will Wimble in his way — had thought fit, of all things in 
the world, to bring his umbrella, which the wind, as might 
have been expected, reversed most unceremoniously the mo- 
ment he attempted to hoist it, and tore it from the staff, so 
that, on the impulse of the moment, he had to clutch the fly- 
ing red silk and thrust his head through the centre, where 
the stick had stood, as if he had been some curious flower. 
As we turned the corner of the house, the full force of the 
storm met us right in the teeth, when flap flew Don Ricar- 
do’s hat past us; but the two blackamoors had taken the pre- 
caution to strap each of theirs down with a strong grass lan- 
yard. We continued to work to windward, while every now 
and then the hollo came past us on the gale louder and 
louder, until it guided us to the fording which we had crossed 
on our first arrival. We stopped there; — the red torrent was 
rushing tumultuously past us, but we saw nothing save a 
few wet and shivering negroes on the opposite side, who had 
sheltered themselves under a cliff, and were busily employed 
in attempting to light a fire. The holloing continued. 

“ Why, what can be wrong ? ” at length said Don Ricardo, 
and he shouted to the people on the opposite side. 

He might as well have spared his breath, for, although 
they saw his gestures and the motion of his lips, they no 
more heard him than we did them, as they very considerately 
in return made mouths at us, bellowing, no doubt, that they 
could not hear us. 

“ Don Ricardo — Don Ricardo ! ” at this crisis sung out 
Gaspar, who had clambered up the rock, to have a peep about 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


315 

him, — “Aye Maria — Alla son dos pobres , quo peresquen 
pronto, si nosotros no pueden ayudarlos ” 

“ Whereabouts ? ” said Campana — “ whereabouts ? speak, 
man, speak.” 

“Down in the valley — about a quarter of a league, I see 
two men on a large rock, in the middle of the stream; the 
wind is in that direction, it must be them we heard.” 

“ God be gracious to us ! true enough — true enough, — let 
us go to them then, my children.” And we again all can- 
tered off after the excellent Don Ricardo. But before we 
could reach the spot, we had to make a detour, and come down 
upon it from the precipitous brow of the beetling cliff above, 
for there was no beach nor shore to the swollen river, which 
was here very deep and surged, rushing under the hollow 
bank with comparatively little noise, which was the reason 
we heard the cries so distinctly. 

The unfortunates who were in peril, whoever they might 
be, seemed to comprehend our motions, for one of them held 
out a white handkerchief, which I immediately answered by 
a similar signal, when the shouting ceased, until, guided by 
the negroes, we reached the verge of the cliff, and looked 
down from the red crumbling bank on the foaming water, 
as it swept past beneath. It was here about thirty yards 
broad, divided by a rocky wedge-like islet, on which grew a 
profusion of dark bushes and one large tree, whose topmost 
branches were on a level with us where we stood. This tree 
was divided, about twelve feet from the root, into two limbs, 
in the fork of which sat, like a big monkey, no less a per- 
sonage than Captain Transom himself, wet and dripping, 
with his clothes besmeared with mud, and shivering with 
cold. At the foot of the tree sat in rueful mood, a small 
antique beau of an old man, in a coat which had once been 
blue silk, wearing breeches, the original colour of which no 
man could tell, and without his wig, his clear bald pate 
shining amidst the surrounding desolation like an ostrich’s 
egg. Besides these worthies stood two trembling way-worn 
mules with drooping heads, their long ears hanging down 
most disconsolately. The moment we came in sight, the 
skipper hailed us. 

“ Why, I am hoarse with bawling, Don Ricardo, but here 
am I and El Doctor Pavo Real, in as sorry a plight as any 
two gentlemen need be. On attempting the ford two hours 
ago, blockheads as we were — beg pardon, Don Pavo” — the 
doctor bowed, and grinned like a baboon — “we had nearly 
been drowned ; indeed, we should have been drowned entirely, 
had we not brought up on this island of Barataria here. — But 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


316 

how is the young lady? tell me that,” said the excellent- 
hearted fellow, even in the midst of his own danger. 

“ Mind yourself , my beautiful child,” cried Bang. “ How 
are we to get you on terra firma ? ” 

“ Poo — in the easiest way possible,” rejoined he, with true 
seaman-like self-possession. “ I see you have ropes — Tom 
Cringle, heave me the end of the line which Don Ricardo car- 
ries, will you ? ” 

“ No, no — I can do that myself,” said Don Kicardo, and 
with a swing he hove the leathern noose at the skipper, and 
whipped it over his neck in a twinkling. The Scotch Span- 
iard, I saw, was pluming himself on his skill, but Transom 
was up to him, for in an instant he dropped out of it, while, 
in slipping through, he let it fall over a broken limb of the 
tree. 

“ Such an eel — such an eel ! ” shouted the attendant ne- 
groes, both expert hands with the lasso themselves. 

“ Now, Don Ricardo, since I am not to be had, make your 
end of the thong fast round that large stone there.” Campana 
did so. “ Ah, that will do.” And so saying, the skipper 
warped himself to the top of the cliff with great agility. He 
Avas no sooner in safety himself, however, than the idea of 
having left the poor doctor in peril flashed on him. 

“ I must return — I must return ! If the river rises, the body 
will be drowned out and out.” 

And notwithstanding our entreaties, he did return as he 
came, and descending the tree, began apparently to argue 
with the little medico , and to endeavour to persuade him to 
ascend, and make his escape as he himself had done; but it 
would not do. Pavo Real — as brave a little man as ever was 
seen — made many salaams and obeisances, but move he would 
not. He shook his head repeatedly, in a very solemn way, as 
if he had said, “ My very excellent friends, I am much obliged 
to you, but it is impossible ; my dignity would be compromised 
by such a proceeding.” 

Presently Transom appeared to wax very emphatic, and 
pointed to a pinnacle of limestone rock, which had stood out 
like a small steeple above the surface of the flashing, dark red 
eddies, when we first arrived on the spot, but now only stopped 
the water with a loud gurgle, the top rising and disappearing 
as the stream surged past, like a buoy jaugling in a tideway. 
The small man still shook his head, but the water now rose so 
rapidly, that there was scarcely dry standing room for the two 
poor devils of mules, while the doctor and the skipper had 
the greatest difficulty in finding a footing for themselves. 

Time and circumstances began to press, and Transom, after 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


317 


another unavailing attempt to persuade the doctor, began ap- 
parently to rouse himself, and muster his energies. He first 
drove the mules forcibly into the stream at the side opposite 
where we stood, which was the deepest water, and least broken 
by rocks and stones, and we had the pleasure to see them 
scramble out safe and sound; he then put his hand to his 
mouth, and hailed us to throw him a rope — it was done— he 
caught it, and then by a significant gesture to Campana, gave 
him to understand that now was the time. The Don, compre- 
hending him, hove his noose with great precision, right over 
the little doctor’s head, and before he recovered from his sur- 
prise, the captain slipped it under his arms, and signed to 
haul tight, while the medico kicked, and spurred, and backed 
like a restive horse. At one and the same moment, Transom 
made fast a guy round his waist, and we hoisted away, while 
he hauled on the other line, so that we landed the Lilliputian 
Esculapius safe on the top of the bank, with the wind nearly 
out of his body, however, from his violent exertions, and the 
running of the noose. 

It was now the work of a moment for the captain to ascend 
the tree and again warp himself ashore, when he set himself to 
apologize with all his might and main, pleading strong ne- 
cessity; and having succeeded in pacifying the offended dig- 
nity of the doctor, we turned towards the house. 

“ Look out, there,” sung out Campana sharply. 

Time indeed, thought I, for right a-head of us, as if an in- 
visible gigantic ploughshare had passed over the woods, a val- 
ley or chasm was suddenly opened down the hill-side with a 
noise like thunder, and branches and whole limbs of trees 
were instantly torn away, and tossed into the air like straws. 

“ Down on your noses, my fine fellows,” cried the skipper. 
We were all flat in an instant, except the medico , the stubborn 
little brute, who stood until the tornado reached him, when 
in a twinkling he was cast on his back, with a violence suffi- 
cient, as I thought, to have driven his breath for ever and aye 
out of his body. While we lay we heard all kinds of things 
hurtle past us through the air, pieces of timber, branches of 
trees, coffee-bushes, and even stones. Presently it lulled 
again, and we got on end to look around us. 

“ How will the old house stand all this, Don Ricardo? ” said 
the drenched skipper. He had to shout to be heard. The Don 
was too busy to answer, but once more strode on towards the 
dwelling, as if he expected something even worse than we had 
experienced to be still awaiting us. By the time we reached 
it, it was full of negroes, men, women, and children, whose 
huts had already been destroyed, poor, drenched, miserable 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


318 

devils, with scarcely any clothing; and to crown our comfort, 
we found the roof leaking in many places. By this time the 
night began to fall, and our prospects were far from flatter- 
ing. The rain had entirely ceased, nor was there any light- 
ning, but the storm was most tremendous, blowing in gusts, 
and veering round from east to north with the speed of 
thought. The force of the gale, however, gradually declined, 
until the wind subsided altogether, and every thing became 
quite still. The low murmured conversation of the poor ne- 
groes who environed us, was heard distinctly; the hard 
breathing of the sleeping children could even be distin- 
guished. But I was by no means sure that the hurricane was 
over, and Don Bicardo and the rest seemed to think as I did, 
for there was not a word interchanged between us for some 
time. 

“ Do you hear that ? ” at length said Aaron Bang, as a low 
moaning sound rose wailing into the night air. It approached 
and grew louder. 

“ The voice of the approaching tempest amongst the higher 
branches of the trees,” said the captain. 

The rushing noise overhead increased, but still all was so 
calm where we sat, that you could have heard a pin drop. Poo, 
thought I, it has passed over us after all — no fear now, when 
one reflects how completely sheltered we are. Suddenly, how- 
ever, the lights in the room where the body lay were blown 
out, and the roof groaned and creaked as if it had been the 
bulkheads of a ship in a tempestuous sea. 

“We shall have to cut and run from this anchorage pres- 
ently, after all,” said I ; “ the house will never hold on till 
morning.” 

The words w^ere scarcely out of my mouth, when, as if a 
thunderbolt had struck it, one of the windows in the hall was 
driven in with a roar, as if the Palls of Niagara had been 
pouring overhead, and the tempest having thus forced an en- 
trance, the roof of that part of the house where we sat was 
blown up, as if by gunpowder — ay, in the twinkling of an eye ; 
and there we were with the bare walls, and the angry heavens 
overhead, and the rain descending in bucketsful. Fortu- 
nately, two large joists or couples, being deeply embedded in 
the substance of the walls, remained when the rafters and 
ridgepole were torn away, or we must have been crushed in 
the ruins. 

There was again a death-like lull, the wind fell to a small 
melancholy sough amongst the tree-tops, and once more, 
where we sat, there was not a breath stirring. So complete 
was the calm now, that after a light had been struck, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


319 

placed on the floor in the middle of the room, shewing the 
surrounding group of shivering half-naked savages, with fear- 
ful distinctness, the flame shot up straight as an arrow, clear 
and bright, although the distant roar of the storm still 
thundered afar off as it rushed over the mountain above us. 

This unexpected stillness frightened the women even more 
than- the fierceness of the gale, when at the loudest, had done. 
. “We must go forth,” said Senora Campana; “ the elements 
are only gathering themselves for a more dreadful hurricane 
than what we have already experienced. We must go forth to 
the little chapel in the wood, or the next burst may, and will , 
bury us under the walls ; ” and she moved towards Maria’s 
room, where, by this time, lights had again been placed. “We 
must move the body,” we could hear her say ; “ we must all 
proceed to the chapel; in a few minutes the storm will be 
raging again louder than ever.” 

“ And my wife is very right,” said Don Ricardo ; “ so Gas- 
par, call the other people; have some mats, and quatres, and 
mattrasses carried down to the chapel, and we shall all re- 
move, for, with half of the roof gone, it is but tempting the 
Almighty to remain here longer.” 

The word was passed, and we were soon under weigh, four 
negroes, leading the van, carrying the uncoffined body of the 
poor girl on a sofa; while two servants, with large splinters 
of a sort of resinous wood for flambeaux, walked by the side 
of it. Next followed the women of the family, covered up 
with all the cloaks and spare garments that could be collected ; 
then came Don Picador Cangrejo, with Ricardo Campana, 
the skipper, Aaron Bang, and myself; the procession being 
closed by the household negroes, with more lights, which all 
burned steadily and clear. 

We descended through a magnificent natural avenue of 
lofty trees (whose brown moss-grown trunks and fantastic 
boughs were strongly lit up by the blaze of the torches ; while 
the fresh white splinter-marks where the branches had been 
torn off by the storm, glanced bright and clear, and the rain- 
drops on the dark leaves sparkled like diamonds) towards the 
river, along whose brink the brimful red-foaming waters 
rushed past us, close by the edge of the path, now ebbing sud- 
denly a foot or so, and then surging up again beyond their 
former bounds, as if large stones or trunks of trees above, 
were from time to time damming up the troubled waters, and 
then giving way. After walking about four hundred yards, 
we came to a small but massive chapel, fronting the river, the 
back part resting against a rocky bank, with two superb cy- 
press-trees growing, one on each side of the door; we entered. 


320 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


Padre Carera leading the way. The whole area of the interior 
of the building did not exceed a parallelogram of twenty feet 
by twelve. At the eastern end, fronting the door, there was a 
small altar-piece of hardwood, richly ornamented with silver, 
and one or two bare wooden benches standing on the tiled 
floor; but the chief security we had that the building would 
withstand the storm, consisted in its having no window or 
aperture whatsoever, excepting two small ports , one on each 
side of the altar-piece, and the door, which was a massive 
frame of hard-wood planking. 

The body was deposited at the foot of the altar, and the la- 
dies, having been wrapped up in cloaks and blankets, were 
safely lodged in quatres, while we, the gentlemen of the com- 
fortless party, seated ourselves, disconsolately enough, on the 
wooden benches. 

The door was made fast, after the servants had kindled a 
blazing wood-fire on the floor; and although the flickering 
light cast by the wax tapers in the six large silver candlesticks 
which were planted beside the bier, as it blended with the red 
glare of the fire, and fell strong on the pale uncovered features 
of the corpse, and on the anxious faces of the women, was 
often startling enough, yet being conscious of a certain degree 
of security from the thickness of the walls, we made up our 
minds to spend the night where we were as well as we could. 

“ I say, Tom Cringle,” said Aaron Bang, “ all the females 
are snug there, you see ; we have a blazing fire on the hearth, 
and here is some comfort for we men slaves ; ” whereupon he 
produced two bottles of brandy. Don Ricardo Campana, with 
whom Bang seemed now to be absolutely in league, or, in vul- 
gar phrase, as thick as pickpockets, had brought a goblet of 
water, and a small silver drinking cup, with him, so we passed 
the creature round, and tried all we could to while away the 
tedious night. But, as if a sudden thought had struck Aaron, 
he here tucked the brandy bottle under his arm, and asking 
me to carry the vessel with the water, he advanced, cup in 
hand, towards the ladies — 

“ Now, Tom, interpret carefully.” 

“Ahem — Madam and Signoras, this is a heavy night for 
all of us, but the chapel is damp — allow me to comfort you.” 

“ Muchisimos gracias,” was the gratifying answer, and 
Bang accordingly gave each of our fair friends a heart-warm- 
ing taste of brandy and water. There was now a calm for a 
full hour, and the captain had stepped out to reconnoitre; on 
his return he reported that the swollen stream had very much 
subsided. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 321 

u Well, we shall get away, I hope, to-morrow morning, after 
all,” whispered Bang. 

lie had scarcely spoken when it began to pelt and rain 
again, as if a waterspout had burst overhead, but there was 
no wind. 

“ Come, that is the clearing up of it,” said Cloche. 

At this precise moment the priest was sitting with folded 
arms beyond the body, on a stool or trestle, in the alcove or 
recess where it lay. Right over head was one of the small 
round apertures in the gable of the chapel, which, opening on 
the bank, appeared to the eye a round black spot in the white- 
washed wall. The bright wax-lights shed a strong lustre on the 
worthy clerigo’s figure, face, and fine bald head, which shone 
like silver, while the deeper light of the embers on the floor 
was reflected in ruby tints from the large silver crucifix that 
hung at his waist. The rushing of the swollen river prevented 
me hearing distinctly, but it occurred to me once or twice, 
that a strange gurgling sound proceeded from the aforesaid 
round aperture. The padre seemed to hear it also, for every 
now and then he looked up, and once he rose and peered anx- 
iously through it; but apparently unable to distinguish any 
thing, he sat down again. However, my attention had been ex- 
cited, and half asleep as I was, I kept glimmering in the di- 
rection of the clerigo. 

The captain’s deep snore had gradually lengthened out, so 
as to vouch for his forgetfulness, and Bang, Ricardo, Dr Pavo 
Real, and the ladies, had all subsided into the most perfect 
quietude, when I noticed, and I quaked and trembled like an 
aspen leaf as I did so, a long black paw, thrust through, and 
down from the dark aperture immediately over Padre 
Carera’s head, which, whatever it was, it appeared to scratch 
sharply, and then giving the caput a smart cuff, vanished. 
The priest started, put up his hand, and rubbed his head, but 
seeing nothing, again leant back, and was about departing to 
the land of nod , like the others, once more. However, in a few 
minutes, the same paw again protruded, and this time a peer- 
ing black snout, with two glancing eyes, was thrust through 
the hole after it. The paw kept swinging about like a pendu- 
lum for a few seconds, and was then suddenly thrust into the 
padre's open mouth as he lay back asleep, and again giving 
him another smart crack, vanished as before. 

“Hobble, gobble,” gurgled the priest, nearly choked. “ Ave 
Maria purissima, que hocado — what a mouthful — What can 
that be ? ” 

This was more than I knew, I must confess, and altogether 
I was consumedly puzzled, but from a disinclination to alarm 


322 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the women I held my tongue. Padre Carera this time moved 
away to the other side from beneath the hole, but still within 
two feet of it — in fact, he could not get in this direction far- 
ther for the altar-piece — and being still half asleep, he lay 
back once more against the wall to finish his nap, taking the 
precaution, however, to clap on his long shovel hat, shaped 
like a small canoe, crosswise, with the peaks standing out 
from each side of his head, in place of wearing it fore and aft, 
as usual. Well, thought I, a strange party certainly; but 
drowsiness was fast settling down on me also, when the same 
black paw was again thrust through the hole, and I distinctly 
heard a nuzzling, whinning short bark. I rubbed my eyes 
and sat up, but before I was quite awake, the head and neck 
of a large Newfoundland dog was shoved into the chapel 
through the round aperture, and making a long stretch, with 
the black paws thrust down and resting on the wall, support- 
ing the creature, the animal suddenly snatched the padre s hat 
off his head, and giving it an angry worry — as much as to say, 
“ Confound it, I had hoped to have the head in it ” — it 
dropped it on the floor, and with a loud yell. Sneezer, my own 
old dear Sneezer, leaped into the midst of us, floundering 
amongst the sleeping women, and kicking the firebrands 
about, making them hiss again with the water he shook from 
his shaggy coat, and frightening all hands like the very devil. 

“ Sneezer, you villain, how came you here ! ” I exclaimed, 
in great amazement — “ how came you here, sir ? ” the dog 
knew me at once, and when benches were reared against him, 
after the women had huddled into a corner, and every thing 
was in sad confusion, he ran to me, and leaped on my neck, 
gasping and yelping ; but finding that I was angry, and in no 
mood for toying, he planted himself on end so suddenly, in the 
middle of the floor, close by the fire, that all our hands were 
stayed, and no one could find in his heart to strike the poor 
dumb brute, he sat so quiet and motionless. “ Sneezer, my 
boy, what have you to say — where have you come from ? ” He 
looked in the direction of the door, and then walked deliber- 
ately towards it, and tried to open it with his paws. 

“ Now,” said the captain, “ that little scamp, who would 
insist on riding with me to St Jago, to see, as he said, if he 
might not be of use in fetching the surgeon from the ship in 
case I could not find Dr Bergara, has come back, although I 
desired him to stay on board. The puppy must have returned 
in his cursed troublesome zeal, for in no other way could your 
dog be here. Certainly, however, he did not know that I had 
fallen in with Dr Pavo Real ; ” and the good-natured fellow’s 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


323 


heart melted as he continued — “ Returned ! why, he may be 
drowned — Cringle, take care little Reefpoint be not drowned.” 

Sneezer lowered his black snout, and for a moment poked 
it into the white ashes of the fire, and then raising it and 
stretching his neck upwards to its full length, he gave a short 
bark, and then a long loud howl. 

“ My life upon it, the poor boy is gone,” said I. 

“ But what can we do ? ” said Don Ricardo ; “ it is as dark 
as pitch.” 

And we again set ourselves to have a small rally at the 
brandy and water, as a resolver of our doubts, whether we 
should sit still till daybreak, or sally forth now, and run the 
chance of being drowned, with but small hope of doing any 
good; and the old priest having left the other end of the 
chapel, where the ladies were once more reposing, now came 
to join our council of war, and to have his share of the agua 
ardiente. 

The noise of the rain increased, and there was still a little 
puff of wind now and then, so that the padre, taking an al- 
fombra, or small mat used to kneel on, and placing it on the 
step where the folding-doors opened inwards, took a cloak on 
his shoulders, and sat himself down with his back against the 
leaves, to keep them closed, as the lock or bolt was broken, and 
was in the act of swigging off his cupful of comfort, when a 
strong gust drove the door open, as if the devil himself had 
kicked it, capsized the padre, blew out the lights once more, 
and scattered the brands of the fire all about us. Transom 
and I started up, the women shrieked ; but before we could get 
the door to again, in rode little Reefpoint on a mule, with the 
doctor of the Firebrand behind him, bound, or lashed , as we 
call it, to him by a strong thong. The black servants and the 
females took them for incarnate fiends, I fancy, for the yells 
and shrieks they set up were tremendous. 

“Yo, ho!” sung out little Reefy; “don’t be frightened, 
ladies — Lord love ye, I am half drowned, and the doctor here 
is altogether so — quite entirely drowned, I assure you. I say, 
medico, an’t it true ? ” And the little Irish rogue slewed his 
head round, and gave the exhausted doctor a most comical look. 

“Not quite,” quoth the doctor,” “but deuced near it. I 
say, captain, would you have known us? why, we are dyed 
chocolate colour, you see, in that river, flowing not with milk 
and honey, but with something miraculously like pea-soup — 
water, I cannot call it.” 

“ But, Heaven help us, why did you try the ford, man ? ” 
said Bang. 

“You may say that, sir,” responded wee Reefy; “but our 


324 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


mule was knocked up, and it was so dark and tempestuous, 
that we should have perished by the road if we had tried 
back for St Jago; so seeing a light here, the only indication 
of a living thing, and the stream looking narrow and com- 
paratively quiet — confound it, it was all the deeper though 
— we shoved across.” 

“ But, bless me, if you had been thrown in the stream 
lashed together as you are, you would have been drowned to 
a certainty,” said the captain. 

“ Oh,” said little Reefy, “ the doctor was not on the mule 
in crossing — no, no, captain, I knew better — I had him in tow, 
sir ; but after we crossed he was so faint and chill, that I had 
to lash myself to him to keep him from sliding over the ani- 
mal’s counter, and walk he could not.” 

“ But, Master Reefpoint, why came you back ? did I not de- 
sire you to remain on board of the Firebrand, sir?” 

The midshipman looked nonplussed. “ Why, captain, I for- 
got to take my clothes with me, and — and — in truth, sir, I 
thought our surgeon would be of more use than any out- 
landish gallipot that you could carry back.” 

The good intentions of the lad saved him farther reproof, 
although I could not help smiling at his coming back for his 
clothes, when his whole wardrobe on starting was confined to 
the two false collars and a tooth-brush. 

“ But where is the young lady ? ” said the doctor. 

“ Beyond your help, my dear doctor,” said the skipper ; “ she 
is dead — all that remains of her you see within that small 
railing there.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” quoth the medico , “ poor girl — poor girl — 
deep decline — wasted, terribly wasted,” said he, as he returned 
from the railing of the altar-piece, where he had been to look 
down upon the body; and then, as if there never had been such 
a being as poor Maria Olivera in existence, he continued, 
“ Pray, Mr Bang, what may you have in that bottle ? ” 

“ Brandy, to be sure, doctor,” said Bang. 

“ A thimbleful then, if you please.” 

“By all means.” And the planting attorney handed the 
black bottle to the surgeon, who applied it to his lips, without 
more circumlocution. 

“ Lord love us ! — poisoned — Oh, gemini ! ” 

“ Why, doctor,” said Transom, “ what has come over you ? ” 

“ Poisoned, captain — only taste.” 

The bottle contained soy. It was some time before we could 
get the poor man quieted: and when at length he was 
stretched along a bench, and the fire stirred up, and new 
wood added to it, the fresh air of early morning began to be 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


325 


scented. At this time we missed Padre Carera, and, in truth, 
we all fell fast asleep ; but in about an hour or so afterwards, 
I was awoke by some one stepping across me. The same 
cause had stirred Transom. It was Aaron Bang, who had 
been to look out at the door. 

# “ I say. Cringle, look here — the padre and the servants are 
digging a grave close to the chapel — are they going to bury 
the poor girl so suddenly ? ” 

I stepped to the door; the wind had entirely fallen — but 
it rained very fast — the small chapel door looked out on the 
still swollen, but subsiding river, and beyond that on the 
mountain, which rose abruptly from the opposite bank. On 
the side of the hill facing us was situated a negro village, of 
about thirty huts, where lights were already twinkling, as if 
the inmates were preparing to go forth to their work. Far 
above them, on the ridge, there was a clear cold streak to- 
wards the east, against which the outline of the mountain, 
and the large trees which grew on it, were sharply cut out; 
but over head, the firmament was as yet dark and threaten- 
ing. The morning star had just risen, and was sparkling 
bright and clear through the branches of a magnificent tree, 
that shot out from the highest part of the hill; it seemed to 
have attracted the captain’s attention as well as mine. 

“ Were I romantic now, Mr Cringle, I could expatiate on 
that view. How cold, and clear, and chaste every thing looks ! 
The elements have subsided into a perfect calm, every thing 
is quiet and still, but there is no warmth, no comfort in the 
scene.” 

u What a soaking rain ! ” said Aaron Bang ; “ why, the 
drops are as small as pin points, and so thick ! — a Scotch mist 
is a joke to them. Unusual all this, captain. You know our 
rain in Jamaica usually descends in bucketsful, unless it be 
regularly set in for a week, and then, but then only, it be- 
comes what in England we are in the habit of calling a soak- 
ing rain. One good thing, however, while it descends so 
quietly, the earth will absorb it all, and that furious river 
will not continue swollen.” 

“ Probably not,” said I. 

“ Mr Cringle,” said the skipper, “ do you mark that tree 
on the ridge of the mountain, that large tree in such con- 
spicuous relief against the eastern sky ? ” 

“ I do, captain. But — Heaven help us !— what necromancy 
is this ! It seems to sink into the mountain-top — why, I only 
see the uppermost branches now. It has disappeared, and 
yet the outline of the hill is as distinct and well defined as 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


326 

ever; I can even see the cattle on the ridge, although they 
are running about in a very incomprehensible way certainly.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Don Ricardo, “ hush ! — the padre is read- 
ing the funeral service in the chapel, preparatory to the body 
being brought out.” 

And so he was. But a low grumbling noise, gradually in- 
creasing, was now distinctly audible. The monk hurried on 
with the prescribed form — he finished it — and we were about 
moving the body to carry it forth — Bang and I being in the 
very act of stooping down to lift the bier, when the captain 
sung out sharp and quick — “ Here, Tom ! ” — the urgency of 
the appeal abolishing the Mister — “ Here ! — Zounds, the 
whole hill side is in motion ! ” And as he spoke, I beheld the 
negro village, that hung on the opposite bank, gradually fetch 
away, houses, trees, and all, with a loud, harsh, grating 
sound. 

“ God defend us ! ” I involuntarily exclaimed. 

“ Stand clear,” shouted the skipper ; “ the whole hill side 
opposite is under way, and we shall be bothered here pres- 
ently.” 

He was right — the entire face of the hill over against us 
was by this time in motion, sliding over the substratum of 
rock like a first-rate gliding along the well-greased ways at 
launching — an earthly avalanche. Presently the rough, rat- 
tling, and crashing sound, from the disrupture of the soil, and 
the breaking of the branches, and tearing up by the roots of 
the largest trees, gave warning of some tremendous incident. 
The lights in the huts still burned, but houses and all con- 
tinued to slide down the declivity; and anon a loud startled 
exclamation was heard here and there, and then a pause, but 
the low mysterious hurtling sound never ceased. 

At length a loud continuous yell echoed along the hill side. 
The noise increased — the rushing sound came stronger and 
stronger — the river rose higher, and roared louder; it over- 
leaped the lintel of the door — the fire on the floor hissed for 
a moment, and then expired in smouldering wreaths of white 
smoke — the discoloured torrent gurgled into the chapel, and 
reached the altar-piece ; and while the cries from the hill side 
were highest, and bitterest, and most despairing, it suddenly 
filled the chapel to the top of the low door-post ; and although 
the large tapers which had been lit near the altar-piece were 
as yet unextinguished, like meteors sparkling on a troubled 
sea, all was misery and consternation. 

“ Have patience, and be composed, now,” shouted Don Ri- 
cardo. “ Tf it increases, we can escape through the apertures 
here, behind the altar-piece, and from thence to the high 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


327 


grounds beyond. The heavy rain has loosened the soil on 
the opposite bank, and it has slid into the river-course, negro 
houses and all. But be composed, my dears — nothing super- 
natural in all this; and rest assured, although the river has 
unquestionably been forced from its channel, that there is no 
danger, if you will only maintain your self-possession.” 

And there we were — an inhabitant of a cold climate can- 
not go along with me in the description. We were all alarmed, 
but we were not chilled — cold is a great damper of bravery. 
At New Orleans, the black regiments, in the heat of the fore- 
noon, were really the most efficient corps of the army; but in 
the morning, when the hoar-frost was on the long wire-grass, 
they were but as a broken reed. “ Him too cool for brave to- 
day,” said the sergeant of the grenadier company of the West 
India regiment, which was brigaded in the ill-omened ad- 
vance, when we attacked New Orleans; but here, having 
heat, and seeing none of the women egregiously alarmed, we 
all took heart of grace, and really there was no quailing 
amongst us. 

Senora Campana and her two nieces, Senora Cangrejo and 
her angelic daughter, had all betaken themselves to a sort of 
seat, enclosing the altar in a semicircle, with the peas-soup- 
coloured water up to their knees. Not a word — not an excla- 
mation of fear escaped from them, although the gushing ed- 
dies from the open door shewed that the soil from the oppo- 
site hill was fast settling down, and usurping the former 
channel of the river. 

“ All very fine this to read of,” at last exclaimed Aaron 
Bang. “Zounds, we shall be drowned. Look out, Transom; 
Tom Cringle, look out ; for my part, I shall dive through the 
door, and take my chance.” 

“No use in that,” said Don Ricardo; “the two round 
openings there at the west end of the chapel, open on a dry 
shelf, from which the ground slopes easily upward to the 
house; let us put the ladies through them, and then we males 
can shift for ourselves as we best may.” 

At this moment the water rose so high, that the bier on 
which the corpse of poor Maria Olivera lay stark and stiff, 
was floated off the trestles, and turning on its edge, after 
glancing for a moment in the light cast by the wax tapers, 
it sunk into the thick brown water, and was no more seen. 

The old priest murmured a prayer, but the effect on us was 
electric. “ Sauve qui pent ,” was now the cry; and Sneezer, 
quite in his element, began to cruise all about, threatening 
the tapers with instant extinction. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


328 

“Ladies, get through the holes,” shouted Don Ricardo. 
“ Captain, get you out first.” 

“ Can’t desert my ship,” said the gallant fellow ; “ the last 
to quit where danger is, my dear sir. It is my character; but 
Mr Cringle, go you, and hand the ladies out.” 

“ Indeed I will not,” said I. “ Beg pardon, sir ; I simply 
mean to say, that I cannot usurp the pas from you.” 

“ Then, ’’quoth Don Ricardo — a more discreet personage 
than any of us — “ I will go myself ; ” and forthwith he 
screwed himself through one of the round holes in the wall 
behind the altar-piece. “ Give me out one of the wax tapers 
— there is no wind now,” said Don Ricardo ; “ and hand out 
my wife, Captain Transom.” 

“ A ve Maria ! ” said the matron, “ I shall never get through 
that hole.” 

“ Try, my dear madam,” said Bang, for by this time we 
were all deucedly alarmed at our situation. “ Try, madam; ” 
and we lifted her towards the hole — fairly entered her into 
it, head foremost, and all was smooth, till a certain part of 
the excellent woman’s earthly tabernacle stuck fast. 

We could hear her invoking all the saints in the calendar 
on the outside to “ make her thin ; ” but the flesh and muscle 
were obdurate — through she would not go, until — delicacy 
being now blown to the winds — Captain Transom placed his 
shoulder to the old lady’s extremity, and with a regular “ Oh, 
heave oh ! ” shot her through the aperture into her husband’s 
arms. The young ladies we ejected much more easily, al- 
though Francesca Cangrejo did stick a little too. The priest 
was next passed, then Don Picador; and so we went on, un- 
til in rotation we had all made our exit, and were perched 
shivering on the high bank. God defend us ! we had not been 
a minute there when the rushing of the stream increased — 
the rain once more fell in torrents — several large trees came 
down with a fearful impetus in the roaring torrent, and 
struck the corner of the chapel. It shook — we could see the 
small cross on the eastern gable tremble. Another stump 
surged against it — it gave way — and in a minute afterwards 
there was not a vestige remaining of the whole fabric. 

“ What a funeral for thee, Maria ! ” said Don Ricardo. 

Not a vestige of the body was ever found. 

There was nothing now for it. We all stopped, and turned, 
and looked — there was not a stone of the building to be seen 
— all was red, precipitous bank, or dark flowing river — so we 
turned our steps towards the house. The sun by this time 
had risen. We found the northern range of rooms still en- 
tire, so we made the most of it ; and, by dint of the captain’s 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 2 9 


and my nautical skill, before dinner-time, there was rigged a 
canvass jury-roof over the southern part of the fabric, and 
we were once more seated in comparative comfort at our 
meal. But it was all melancholy work enough. However, at 
last we retired to our beds ; and next morning, when I awoke, 
there was the small stream once more trickling over the face 
of the rock, with the slight spray wafting into my bedroom — 
a little discoloured, certainly, but as quietly as if no storm 
had taken place. 

We were kept at Don Picador’s for three days, as, from 
the shooting of the soil from the opposite hill, the river had 
been dammed up, and its channel altered, so that there was 
no venturing across. Three negroes were unfortunately 
drowned, when the bank shot , as Bang called it. But the 
wonder passed away ; and by nine o’clock on the fourth morn- 
ing, when we mounted our mules to proceed, there was little 
apparently on the fair face of nature to mark that such fear- 
ful scenes had been. However, when we did get under weigh, 
we found that the hurricane had not passed over us without 
leaving fearful evidences of its violence. 

We had breakfasted — the women had wept — Don Ricardo 
had blown his nose — Aaron Bang had blundered and fidg- 
eted about — and the bestias were at the door. We em- 
braced the ladies. 

“ My son,” said Senora Cangrejo, “ we shall most likely 
never meet again. You have your country to go to — you 
have a mother. Oh, may she never suffer the pangs which 
have wrung my heart! But I know — I know that she never 
will.” I bowed. “ We may never — indeed, in all likelihood 
we shall never meet again ! ” continued she, in a rich, deep- 
toned, mellow voice; “but if your way 'of life should ever 
lead you to Cordova, you will be sure of having many visit- 
ers, and many a door will open to you, if you will but give 
out that you have shewn kindness to Maria Olivera, or to any 
one conected with her.” She wept, and bent over me, press- 
ing both hands on the crown of my head. “ May that great 
God, who careth not for rank or station, for nation or for 
country, bless you, my son — bless you ! ” 

All this was sorry work. She kissed me on the forehead, 
and turned away. Her daughter was standing close to her, 
“like Niobe, all tears.” “Farewell Mr Cringle — may you 
be happy ! ” J kissed her hand — she turned to the captain. 
He looked inexpressible things, and taking her hand, held it 
to his breast; and then, making a slight genuflection, pressed 
it to his lips. He appeared to be amazingly energetic, and 
she seemed to struggle to be released. He recovered himself, 


33 ° 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


however — made a solemn bow — the ladies vanished. We 
shook hands with old Don Picador, mounted our mules, and 
bid a last adieu to the Valley of the Hurricane. 

We ambled along for some time in silence. At length the 
skipper dropped astern, until he got alongside of me. “ I 
say, Tom” — I was well aware that he never called me Tom 
unless he was fou , or his heart was full, honest man — “ Tom, 
what think you of Francesca Cangrejo ? ” 

Oh ho ! sits the wind in that quarter ? thought I. “ Why, 
I don’t know, captain — I have seen her to disadvantage — * 
so much misery — fine woman though — rather large to my 
taste — but ” 

“ Confound your buts” quoth the captain. “ But never 
mind — push on, push on.” — I may tell the gentle reader in 
his ear, that the worthy fellow, at the moment when I send 
this chapter to the press, has his flag, and that Francesca 
Cangrejo is no less a personage than his wife. 

However, let us go along. “ Doctor Pavo Real,” said Don 
Ricardo, “ now since you have been good enough to spare us a 
day, let us get the heart of your secret out of you. Why, you 
must have been pretty well frightened on the island there.” 

“ Never so much frightened in my life, Don Ricardo; that 
English captain is a most tempestuous man — but all has 
ended well ; and after having seen you to the crossing, I will 
bid you good-by.” 

“ Poo — nonsense. Come along — here is the English medico , 
your brother Esculapius; so, come along, you can return in 
the morning.” 

“ But the sick folk in Santiago ” 

“Will be none the sicker for your absence, Doctor Pavo 
Real,” responded Don Ricardo. 

The little doctor laughed, and away we all cantered — Don 
Ricardo leading, followed by his wife and nieces, on three 
stout mules, sitting, not on side-saddles, but on a kind of 
chair, with a foot-board on the larboard side to support the 
feet — then followed the two Galens, and little Reefpoint, 
while the captain and I brought up the rear. We had not 
proceeded five hundred yards, when we were brought to a 
stand-still by a mighty tree, which had been thrown down 
by the wind fairly across the road. On the right hand there 
was a perpendicular rock rising up to a height of five hun- 
dred feet; and on the left an equally precipitous descent, 
without either ledge or parapet to prevent one from falling 
over. What was to be done? We could not by any exertion 
of strength remove the tree; and if we sent back for instance, 
it would have been a work of time. So we dismounted, got 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


331 


the ladies to alight, and Aaron Bang, Transom, and myself, 
like true knights-errant, undertook to ride the mulos over 
the stump. 

Aaron Bang led gallantly, and made a deuced good jump 
of it — Transom followed, and made not quite so clever an 
exhibition — I then rattled at it, and down came mule and 
rider. However, we were accounted for on the right side. 

“ But what shall become of us ?” shouted the English doctor. 

“ And as for me, I shall return,” said the Spanish medico . 

“ Lord love you, no,” said little Reefpoint ; “ here, lash me 
to my beast, and no fear.” The doctor made him fast, as de- 
sired, round the mule’s neck with a stout thong, and then 
drove him at the barricade, and over they came, man and 
beast, although, to tell the truth, little Reefy alighted well 
out on the neck, with a hand grasping each ear. However, 
he was a gallant little fellow, and in nowise discouraged, so he 
undertook to bring over the other quadrupeds; and in little 
more than a quarter of an hour we were all under weigh on 
the opposite side, in full sail towards Don Ricardo’s property. 
But as we proceeded up the valley, the destruction caused 
by the storm became more and more apparent. Trees were 
strewn about in all directions, having been torn up by the 
roots — road there was literally none; and by the time we 
reached the coffee estate, after a ride, or scramble, more 
properly speaking, of three hours, we were all pretty much 
tired. In some places the road at the best was but a rocky 
shelf of limestone not exceeding twelve inches in width, 
where, if you had slipped, down you would have gone a thou- 
sand feet. At this time it was white and clean, as if it had 
been newly chiselled, all the soil and sand having been washed 
away by the recent heavy rains. 

The situation was beautiiful ; the house stood on a platform 
scarped out of the hill side, with a beautiful view of the whole 
country down to St Jago. The accommodation was good; 
more comforts, more English comforts, in the mansion than 
I had yet seen in Cuba ; and as it was built with, solid slabs 
of limestone, and roofed with strong hardwood timbers, and 
rafters, and tiled, it had sustained comparatively little injury, 
having the advantage of being at the same time sheltered by 
the overhanging cliff. It stood in the middle of a large, plat- 
form of hard sun-dried clay, plastered over, and as white as 
chalk, which extended about forty feet from the eaves of the 
house, in every direction, on which the coffee was cured. This 
platform was surrounded on all sides by the greenest grass I 
had ever seen, and overshadowed, not the house alone, but 
the whole level space, by one vast wild fig-tree. 


332 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ I say, Tom, do you see that Scotchman hugging the Cre- 
ole, eh ? ” 

“ Scotchman ! ” said I, looking towards Don Ricardo, who 
certainly did not appear to be particularly amorous; on the 
contrary, we had just alighted, and the worthy man was en- 
acting groom. 

“ Yes,” continued Bang, “ the Scotchman hugging the Cre- 
ole ; look at that tree — do you see the trunk of it ? ” 

I did look at it. It was a magnificent cedar, with a tall 
straight stem, covered over with a curious sort of fret-work, 
wove by the branches of some strong parasitical plant, which 
had warped itself round and round it, by numberless snake- 
like convolutions, as if it had been a vegetable Laocoon. The 
tree itself shot up branchless to the uncommon height of 
fifty feet; the average girth of the trunk being four-and- 
twenty feet, or eight feet in diameter. The leaf of the cedar 
is small, not unlike the ash; but when I looked up, I noticed 
that the feelers of this ligneous serpent had twisted round 
the larger boughs, and blended their broad leaves with those 
of the tree, so that it looked like two trees grafted into one; 
but, as Aaron Bang said, in a very few years the cedar would 
entirely disappear, its growth being impeded, its pith ex- 
tracted, and its core rotted, by the baleful embraces of the 
wild fig, of " this Scotchman hugging the Creole After we 
had fairly shaken into our places, there was every promise 
of a very pleasant visit. Our host had a tolerable cellar, and 
although there was not much of style in his establishment, 
still there was a fair allowance of comfort, every thing con- 
sidered. The evening after we arrived was most beautiful. 
The house, situated on its white plateau of barbicues, as the 
coffee platforms are called, where large piles of the berries in 
their red cherry-like husks had been blackening in the sun 
the whole forenoon, and on which a gang of negroes was 
now employed covering them up with tarpaulings for the 
night, stood in the centre of an amphitheatre of mountains, 
the front box, as it were, the stage part opening on a bird’s- 
eye view of the distant town and harbour, with the everlast- 
ing ocean beyond it, the currents and flaws of wind making 
its surface look like ice, as we were too distant to discern the 
heaving of the swell, or the motion of the billows. The fast 
falling shades of evening were deepened by the sombrous 
shadow of the immense tree overhead, and all down in the 
deep valley was now becoming dark and undistinguishable, 
through the blue vapours that were gradually floating up to- 
wards us. To the left, on the shoulder of the Horseshoe Hill, 
the sunbeams still lingered, and the gigantic shadows of the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


333 


trees on the right hand prong were strongly cast across the 
valley on a red precipitous bank near the top of it. The sun 
was descending beyond the wood, flashing through the 
branches, as if they had been on fire. He disappeared. It 
was a most lovely still evening — the air — but hear the skip- 
per — 

“ It is the hour when from the houghs 
The nightingale’s high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers’ vows 
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word ; 

And gentle winds and waters near. 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews have lightly wet. 

And in the sky the stars are met ; 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf is browner hue. 

And in the heaven that clear obscure. 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day. 

When twilight melts beneath the moon away.” 

“ Well recited, skipper,” shouted Bang. “ Given as the 
noble poet’s verses should be given. I did not know the ex- 
tent of your accomplishments; grown poetical ever since you 
saw Francesca Cangrejo, eh?” 

The darkness hid the gallant captain’s blushes, if blush 
he did. 

“ I say, Don Ricardo, who are those ? ” — half-a-dozen well- 
clad negroes had approached the house by this time. 

“ Ask them, Mr Bang ; take your friend Mr Cringle for an 
interpreter.” 

“ Well, I will. Tom, who are they ? Ask them — do.” 

I put the question, “ Do you belong to the property ? ” 

The foremost, a handsome negro, answered me, “No, we 
don’t, sir ; at least, not till to-morrow.” 

“ Not till to-morrow ? ” 

“ No, sir; somos Caballeros hoy,” (we are gentlemen to-day.) 

“Gentlemen to-day; and, pray, what shall you be to-mor- 
row ? ” 

(( E sclav os otra ves,” (slaves again, sir,) rejoined the poor 
fellow, nowise daunted. 

“ And you, my darling,” said I to a nice well-dressed girl, 
who seemed to be the sister of the spokesman, “what are 
you to-day, may I ask ? ” 

She laughed — “ E sclav a, a slave to-day, but to-morrow I 
shall be free.” 

“ Very strange.” 


334 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Not at all senor; there are six of us in a family, and 
one of us is free each day, all to father there,” pointing to an 
old gray-headed negro, who stood by, leaning on his staff — 
“ he is free two days in the week ; and as I am going to have 
a child,” — a cool admission, — “ I want to buy another day 
for myself too — but Don Ricardo will tell you all about it.” 

The Don by this time chimed in, talking kindly to the 
poor creatures; but we had to retire, as dinner was now an- 
nounced, to which we sat down. 

Don Ricardo had been altogether Spanish in Santiago, be- 
cause he lived there amongst Spaniards, and every thing was 
Spanish about him; so with the tact of his countrymen he 
had gradually merged into the society in which he moved, 
and having married a very high caste Spanish lady, he at 
length became regularly amalgamated with the community. 
But here, in his mountain retreat, sole master, his slaves in 
attendance on him, he was once more an Englishman, in ex- 
ternals, as he always was at heart, and Richie Cloche, from 
the Lang Toun of Kirkaldy, shone forth in all his glory as 
the kind-hearted landlord. His head household servant was 
an English, or rather a Jamaica negro; his equipment, so 
far as the dinner set out was concerned, was pure English; 
he would not even speak any thing but English himself. 

The entertainment was exceedingly good, — the only thing 
that puzzled us uninitiated subjects, was a fricassee of Ma- 
caca worms, that is, the worm which breeds in the rotten 
trunk of the cotton tree, a beautiful little insect, as big as a 
miller’s thumb, with a white trunk and a black head — in one 
word, a gigantic caterpillar. 

Bang fed thereon — he had been accustomed to it in Ja- 
maica in some Creole families where he visited, he said — 
but it was beyond my compass. However, all this while we 
were having a great deal of fun, when Senora Campana ad- 
dressed her husband, — “ My dear, you are now in your Eng- 
lish mood, so I suppose we must go.” We had dined at six, 
and it might now be about eight. Don Ricardo, with all the 
complacency in the world, bowed, as much as to say, “You 
are right, my dear, you may go,” when his youngest niece 
addressed him. 

“ Tio — my uncle,” said she, in a low silver-toned voice, 
“ J uana and I have brought our guitars ” 

“ Not another word to be said,” quoth Transom — “ the 
guitars by all means.” 

The girls in an instant, without any preparatory blushing, 
or other botheration, rose, slipped their heads and right arms 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 335 

through the black ribbons that supported their instruments, 
and stepped into the middle of the room. 

“ ‘ The Moorish Maid of Granada , 9 ” said Senora Campana. 
They nodded. 

“ You shall take Fernando the sailor's part,” said Senora 
Candalaria, the youngest sister, to Juana, “ for your voice is 
deeper than mine, and I shall be Anna.” 

“ Agreed,” said Juana, with a lovely smile, and an arch 
tw T inkle of her eye towards me, and then launched forth in 
full tide, accompanying her sweet and mellow voice on that 
too much neglected instrument, the guitar. It was a wild, 
irregular sort of ditty, with one or two startling arabesque 
bursts in it. As near as may be, the following conveys the 
meaning, but not the poetry. 

THE MOORISH MAID OF GRANADA. 

FERNANDO 

“ The setting moon hangs over the hill ; 

On the dark pure breast of the mountain lake 
Still trembles her greenish silver wake , 

And the blue mist floats over the rill. 

And the cold streaks of dawning appear, 

Giving token that sunrise is near ; 

And the fast clearing east is flushing. 

And the watery clouds are blushing ; 

And the day-star is sparkling on high, 

Like the fire of my Anna’s dark eye ; 

“ The ruby-red clouds in the east 
Float like islands upon the sea. 

When the winds are asleep on its breast ; 

Ah, would that such calm were for me I 

“ And see, the first streamer-like ray 
From the unrisen god of day. 

Is piercing the ruby-red clouds, 

Shooting up like golden shrouds : 

And like silver gauze falls the shower. 

Leaving diamonds on bank, bush, and bower. 

Amidst many an unopen’d flower. 

Why walks the dark maid of Granada ? ” 

ANNA 

“ At evening when labour is done, 

And cool’d in the sea is the sun ; 

And the dew sparkles clear on the rose. 

And the flowers are beginning to close, 

Which at nightfall again in the calm 
Their incense to God breathe in balm ; 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

And the bat flickers up in the sky. 

And the beetle hums moaningly by ; 

And to rest in the brake speeds the deer, 

While the nightingale sings loud and clear. 

“ Scorch’d by the heat of the sun’s fierce light. 

The sweetest flowers are bending most 
Upon their slender stems ; 

More faint are they than if tempest tost. 

Till they drink of the sparkling gems 
That fall from the eye of night. 

“Hark ! from lattices guitars are tinkling, 

And though in heaven the stars are twinkling, 

No tell-tale moon looks over the mountain. 

To peer at her pale cold face in the fountain ; 

And serenader’s mellow voice. 

Wailing of war, or warbling of love, — 

Of love, while the melting maid of his choice 
Leans out from her bower above. 

“ All is soft and yielding towards night, 

When blending darkness shrouds all from the sight, 

But chaste, chaste, is this cold, pure light, 

Sang the Moorish maid of Granada.’’ 

After the song, we all applauded, and the ladies having 
made their conges, retired. The captain and I looked towards 
Aaron Bang and Don Ricardo; they were tooth and nail at 
something which we could not understand. So we wisely 
held our tongues. 

“ Very strange all this,” quoth Bang. 

“ Not at all,” said Ricardo. “ As I tell you, every slave 
here can have himself or herself appraised, at any time they 
may choose, with liberty to purchase their freedom day by 
day.” 

“ But that would be compulsory manumission,” quoth 
Bang. 

“ And if it be,” said Ricardo, “ what then ? The scheme 
works well here — why should it not do so there — I mean 
with you, who have so many advantages over us ? ” 

This is an unentertaining subject to most people, but hav- 
ing no bias myself, I have considered it but justice to insert 
in my log the following letter, which Bang, honest fellow, ad- 
dressed to me, some years after the time I speak of. 

" My Dear Cringle, 

“ Since I last saw you in London, it is nearly, but not 
quite, three years ago. I considered at the time we parted, 
that if I lived at the rate of L.3000 a-year, I was not spend- 


336 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 337 

ing one-half of my average income, and on the faith of this 
I did plead guilty to my house in Park Lane, and a carriage 
for my wife, — and, in short, I spent my L.3000 a-year. 
Where am I now? In the old shop at Mammee Gully — my 
two eldest daughters, little things, in the very middle of their 
education, hastily ordered out, shipped as it were, like two 
bales of goods to Jamaica — my eldest nephew, whom I had 

adopted, obliged to exchange from the Light Dragoons, 

and to enter a foot regiment, receiving the difference, which 
but cleared him from his mess accounts. But the world says I 
was extravagant. Like Timon, however — no, d — n Timon — 
I spent money when I thought I had it, and therein I did no 
more than the Duke of Bedford, or Lord Grosvenor, or many 
another worthy peer; and now when I no longer have it, 
why, I cut my coat by my cloth, have made up my mind to 
perpetual banishment here, and I owe no man a farthing. 

“ But all this is wandering from the subject. We are now 
asked in direct terms to free our slaves. I will not even 
glance at the injustice of this demand, the horrible infrac- 
tion of rights that it would lead to; all this I will leave un- 
touched; but, my dear fellow, were men in your service or 
the army to do us justice, each in his small sphere in Eng- 
land, how much good might you not do us ! Officers of rank 
are, of all others, the most influential witnesses we could 
adduce, if they, like you, have had opportunities of judging 
for themselves. But I am rambling from my object. You 
may remember our escapade into Cuba, a thousand years 
ago, when you were a lieutenant of the Firebrand. Well, 
you may also remember Don Ricardo’s doctrine regarding 
the gradual emancipation of the negroes, and how we saw 
his plan in full operation — at least I did, for you knew little 
of these matters. Well, last year I made a note of what then 
passed, and sent it to an eminent West India merchant in 
London, who had it published in the Courier , but it did not 
seem to please either one party or the other; a signal proof, 
one would have thought, that there was some good in it. At 
a later period, I requested the same gentleman to have it 
published in Blaclcwood, where it would at least have had a 
fair trial on its own merits, but it was refused insertion. 
My very worthy friend, * * * who acted for old Kit at that 
time as secretary of state for colonial affairs, did not like it, 
I presume; it trenched a little, it would seem, on the integ- 
rity of his great question; it approached to something like 
cumpulsory manumission, about which he does rave. Why, 
will he not think on this subject like a Christian man ? The 
country — I say so — will never sanction the retaining in 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


338 

bondage of any slave, who is willing to pay his master his 
fair appraised value. 

“ Our friend * * * injures us, and himself too, a leetle by 
his ultra notions. However, hear what I propose, and what, 
as I have told you formerly, was published in the Courier by 
no less a man than Lord 

4 ‘ Scheme for the gradual Abolition of Slavery. 

“ ‘The following scheme of redemption for the slaves in 
our colonies is akin to a practice that prevails in some of the 
Spanish settlements. 

“‘We have now bishops, (a most excellent measure,) and 
we may presume that the inferior clergy will be much more 
efficient than heretofore. It is therefore proposed, — That 
every slave, on attaining the age of twenty-one years, should 
be, by act of Parliament, competent to apply to his parish 
clergyman, and signify his desire to be appraised. The 
clergyman’s business would then be to select two respectable 
appraisers from amongst his parishioners, who should value 
the slave, calling in an umpire if they disagreed. 

“ ‘ As men even of good principles will often be more or 
less swayed by the peculiar interests of the body to which 
they belong, the rector should be instructed, if he saw any 
flagrant swerving from an honest appraisement, to notify the 
same to his bishop, who, by application to the governor, if 
need were, could thereby rectify it. When the slave was thus 
valued, the valuation should be registered by the rector, in a 
book to be kept for that purpose, an attested copy of which 
should be annually lodged amongst the archives of 
the colony. 

“‘We shall assume a case, where a slave is valued for 
L.120, Jamaica currency. He soon, by working by- hours, 
selling the produce of his provision grounds, &c. acquires 
L.20; and how easily and frequently this is done, every one 
knows, who is at all acquainted with West Indian affairs. 

“ ‘He then shall have a right to pay to his owner this L.20 
as the price of his Monday for ever, and his owner shall be 
bound to receive it. A similar sum would purchase him his 
freedom on Tuesday; and other four instalments, to use a 
West India phrase, would buy him free altogether. You will 
notice, I consider that he is already free on the Sunday. 
Now, where is the insurmountable difficulty here? The 
planter may be put to inconvenience, certainly, great incon- 
venience, but he has compensation, and the slave has his 
freedom — if he deserves it; and as his emancipation in nine 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


339 


cases out of ten would be a work of time, he would, as he 
approached absolute freedom, become more civilized, that is 
more fit to be free ; and as he became more civilized, new 
wants would spring up, so that when he was finally free, he 
would not be content to work a day or two in the \yeek for 
subsistence merely. He would work the whole six to buy 
many little comforts, which, as a slave suddenly emancipated , 
he never would have thought of. 

“ ‘As the slave becomes free, I would have his owner’s 
allowance of provisions and clothing decrease gradually. 

“ ‘ It may be objected — “ Suppose slaves partly free, to be 
taken in execution and sold for debt.” I answer, let them be 
so. Why cannot three days of a man’s labour be sold by the 
deputy marshal as well as six ? 

“ ‘ Again — “ Suppose the gang is mortgaged, or liable to 
judgments against the owner of it.” I still answer, let it be 
so — only, in this case let the slave pay his instalments into 
court, in place of paying them to his owners, and let him 
apply to his rector for information in such a case. 

“ ‘By the register I would have kept, every one could at 
once see what property an owner had in his gang — that is, 
how many were actually slaves, and how many were in prog- 
ress of becoming free. Thus well-disposed and industrious 
slaves would soon become freemen. But the idle and worth- 
less would still continue slaves , and why the devil shouldn't 
they f (Signed) A. B . 

There does seem to be a rough, yet vigorous sound sense 
in all this. But I take leave of the subject, which I do not 
profess to understand, only I am willing to bear witness in 
favour of my old friends, so far as I can conscientiously. 

We returned next day to Santiago, and had then to un- 
dergo the bitterness of parting. With me it was a slight 
affair, but the skipper! — However, I will not dwell on it. 
We reached the town towards evening. The women were 
ready to weep, I saw; but we all turned in, and next morn- 
ing at breakfast we were moved, I will admit — some more, 
some less. Little Reefy, poor fellow, was crying like a child ; 
indeed he was little more, being barely fifteen. 

“ Oh ! Mr Cringle, I wish I had never seen Miss Canda - 
laria de los Dolores; indeed I do.” 

This was Don Ricardo’s youngest niece. 

“Ah, Reefy, Reefy,” said I, “you must make haste, and 
be made post, and then " 

“ What does he call her ? ” said Aaron, 


340 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Senora Tomassa Candalaria de los Dolores Gonzales y 
Vallejo ” blubbered out little Reefy. 

“ What a complicated piece of machinery she must be ! ” 
gravely rejoined Bang. 

The meal was protracted to a very unusual length, but 
time and tide wait for no man. We rose. Aaron Bang ad- 
vanced to make, his bow to our kind hostess ; he held out his 
hand, but she, to Aaron’s great surprise apparently, pushed 
it on one side, and regularly closing with our friend, hugged 
him in right earnest. I have before mentioned that she was 
a very small woman; so, as the devil would have it, the 
golden pin in her hair was thrust into Aaron’s eye, which 
made him jump back, wherein he lost his balance, and away 
he went, dragging Madama Campana down on top of him. 
However, none of us could laugh now ; we parted, jumped 
into our boat, and proceeded straight to the anchorage, where 
three British merchantmen were by this time riding, all 
ready for sea. We got on board. “ Mr Yerk,” said the cap- 
tain, “ fire a gun, and hoist blue Peter at the fore. Loose 
the fore-topsail.” The masters came on board for their in- 
structions; we passed but a melancholy evening of it, and 
next morning I took my last look of Santiago de Cuba. 


CHAPTER XV 

THE CRUISE OF THE WAVE — THE ACTION WITH THE SLAVER 

“ O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea. 

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. 

Far as the breeze can bear the billow’s foam, 

Survey our empire, and behold our home. 

These are our realms, no limits to their sway— 

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.” 

The Corsair. 

At three o’clock next morning, about an hour and a half 
before daydawn, I was roused from my cot by the gruff voice 
of the boatswain on deck — “ All hands up anchor.” 

The next moment the gunroom steward entered with a 
lantern, which he placed on the table — “Gentlemen, all 
hands up anchor, if you please.” 

“ Botheration ! ” grumbled one. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


341 


“ Oh, dear ! ” yawned another. 

“ How merrily we live that sailors be ! ” sung a third in 
a most doleful strain, and in all the bitterness of heart con- 
sequent on being roused out of a warm nest so unceremoni- 
ously. But no help for it; so up we all got, and opening the 
door of my berth I got out, and sat me down on the bench 
that ran along the starboard side of the table. 

For the benefit of the uninitiated, let me describe a gun- 
room on board of a sloop of war. Everybody knows that the 
captain’s cabin occupies the after part of the ship; next to 
it, on the same deck, is the gunroom. In a corvette, such as 
the Firebrand, it is a room, as near as may be, twenty feet 
long by twelve wide, and lighted by a long scuttle or skylight, 
in the deck above. On each side of this room runs a row 
of small chambers, seven feet long by six feet wide, boarded 
off from the main saloon, or, in nautical phrase, separated 
from it by bulkheads, each with a door and small window 
opening into the same, and, generally speaking, with a small 
scuttle in the side of the ship towards the sea. These are the 
officers’ sleeping apartments, in which they have each a chest 
of drawers and basin-stand; while overhead is suspended a 
cot, or hammock, kept asunder by a wooden frame, six feet 
long by about two broad, slung from cleats nailed to the 
beams above, by two lanyards fastened to rings, one at the 
head, and the other at the foot; from which radiate a .num- 
ber of smaller cords, which are fastened to the canvass of the 
cot ; while a small strip of canvass runs from head to foot on 
each side, so as to prevent the sleeper from rolling out. The 
dimensions of the gunroom are, as will be seen, very much 
circumscribed by the side berths; and when you take into 
account that the centre is occupied by a long table, 
running the whole length of the room, flanked by a wooden 
bench, with a high back to it, on each side, and a large 
clumsy chair at the head, and another at the foot, not for- 
getting the sideboard at the head of the table, (full of 
knives, forks, spoons, tumblers, glasses, &c. &c. &c. stuck into 
mahogany sockets,) all of which are made fast to the deck by 
strong cleats and staples, and bands of spunyarn, so as to 
prevent them fetching away, or moving, when the vessel 
pitches or rolls, you will understand that there is no great 
scope to expatiate upon, free of the table, benches, and bulk- 
heads of the cabins. While I sat monopolizing the dull light 
of the lantern, and accoutring myself as decently as the 
hurry would admit of, I noticed the officers, in their night- 
gowns and night-caps, as they extricated themselves from 
their coops ; and picturesque-looking subjects enough there 


342 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


were amongst them, in all conscience. At length, that is in 
about ten minutes from the time we were called, we were all 
at stations — a gun was fired, and we weighed, and then 
stood out to sea, running along about four knots, with the 
land-wind right aft. Having made an offing of three miles 
or so, we outran the terral, and got becalmed in the belt of 
smooth water between it and the sea-breeze. It was striking 
to see the three merchant-ships gradually draw out from the 
land, until we were all clustered together in a bunch, with 
half a gale of wind curling the blue waves within musket- 
shot, while all was long swell and smooth water with us. At 
length the breeze reached us, and we made sail with our 
convoy to the southward and eastward, the lumbering mer- 
chantmen crowding every inch of canvass, while we could 
hardly keep astern, under close-reefed topsails, foresail, jib, 
and spanker. 

“ Pipe to breakfast,” said the captain to Mr Yerk. 

“ A sail a-beam of us to windward. ” 

“ What is she ? ” sung out the skipper to the man at the 
masthead who had hailed. 

“ ‘A small schooner, sir ; she has fired a gun, and hoisted 
an ensign and pennant.” 

“ How is she steering ? ” 

“ She has edged away for us, sir.” 

“ Very well. — Mr Yerk, make the signal for the convoy 
to stand on. Have the men gone to breakfast ? ” 

“ No, sir, but they are just going.” 

“ Then pipe belay with breakfast for a minute. All hands 
make sail, if you please. Crack on, Mr Yerk, and let us over- 
haul this small swaggerer.” 

In a trice we had all sail set, and were staggering along on 
the larboard tack, close upon a wind. We hauled out from 
the merchant-ships like smoke, and presently the schooner 
was seen from the deck. About this time it fell nearly calm. 
— “ Go to breakfast now.” The crew disappeared, all to the 
officers, man at the helm, quartermaster at the conn, and 
signalman. 

The first lieutenant had the book open on the drum of the 
capstan before him. “ Make our number,” said the captain. 
It was done. “ What does she answer ? ” 

The signalman answered from the fore-rigging, where he 
had perched himself with his glass — “ She makes the signal 
to telegraph, sir — 3, 9, 2, at the fore, sir ” — and so on ; 
which translated was simply this — “ The Wave, with des- 
patches from the admiral.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


343 


“Oh, ho,” said Transom; “what is she sent for? When- 
ever the people have got their breakfast, tack, and stand 
towards her, Mr Yerk.” 

The little vessel approached — “ Shorten sail, Mr Yerk, and 
heave the ship to,” said the captain to the first lieutenant. 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

“ All hands, Mr Catwell.” 

Presently the boatswain’s whistle rung sharp and clear, 
while his gruff voice, to which his mates bore anything but 
mellow burdens, echoed through the ship — “ All hands 
shorten sail — fore and mainsails haul up — haul down the 
jib — in topgallant-sails — now back the main-topsail.” 

By heaving to we brought the Wave on our weather bow. 
She was now within a cable’s length of the corvette; the 
captain was standing on the second foremost gun, on the 
larboard side. “Mafame,” — to his steward, — “hand me up 
my trumpet.” He hailed the little vessel — “ Ho, the 
Wave ahoy! ” 

Presently the responding “ hillo ! ” came down the wind to 
us from the officer in command of her, like an echo — “ Run 
under our stern and heave-to, to leeward.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

As the Wave came to the wind, she lowered down her boat, 
and Mr Jigmaree, the boatswain of the dockyard in Jamaica, 
came on board, and, touching his hat, presented his des- 
patches to the captain. Presently he and the skipper retired 
into the cabin, and all hands were inspecting the Wave in 
her new character of one of his Britannic Majesty’s cruisers. 
When I had last seen her, she was a most beautiful little 
craft, both in hull and rigging, as ever delighted the eye of 
a sailor ; but the dockyard riggers and carpenters had fairly 
bedevilled her, at least so far as appearances went. First, 
they had replaced the light- rail on her gunwale, by heavy 
solid bulwarks four feet high, surmounted by hammock net- 
tings, at least another foot, so that the symmetrical little 
vessel, that formerly floated on the foam light as a sea-gull, 
now looked like a clumsy, dish-shaped Dutch dogger. Her 
long, slender wands of masts, which used to swig about, as 
if there were neither shrouds nor stays to support them, were 
now as taught and stiff as church steeples, with four heavy 
shrouds of a side, and stays and back-stays, and the Devil 
knows what all. 

“ Now,” quoth Tailtackle, “ if them heave* emt aught s at 
the yard have not taken the speed out of that little beauty, I 
am a Dutchman.” Timotheus, I may state in the bygoing, 


344 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


was not a Dutchman; but his opinion was sound, and soon 
verified, to my cost. Jigmaree now approached. 

“ The captain wants you in the cabin, sir,” said he. 

I descended, and found the skipper seated at a table, with 
his clerk beside him, and several open letters lying before 
him. “ Sit down, Mr Cringle.” I took a chair. “ There — 
read that,” and he threw an open letter across the table to 
me, which ran as follows : — 

“ Sib, 

“The Vice-Admiral, commanding on the Jamaica station, 
desires me to say, that the bearer, the boatswain of the dock- 
yard, Mr Luke Jigmaree, has instructions to cruise for, and 
if possible to fall in with you, before you weather Cape 
Maize, and falling in with you, to deliver up charge of the 
vessel to you, as well as of the five negroes, and the pilot, 
Peter Mangrove, who are on board of her. The Wave having 
been armed and fitted with every thing considered necessary, 
you are to man her with thirty-five of your crew, including 
officers, and to place her under the command of Lieut. 
Thomas Cringle, who is to be furnished with a copy of this 
letter authenticated by your signature, and to whom you are 
to give instructions, that he is, first of all, to cruise in the 
great Cuba -channel, until the 14th proximo, for the preven- 
tion of piracy, and the suppression of the slave trade car- 
ried on between the island of Cuba and the coast of Africa, 
and to detain and carry into Havana, or Nassau, New Provi- 
dence, all vessels having slaves on board, which he may have 
reason to believe have been shipped beyond the prescribed 
limits on the African coast, as specified on the margin; and 
after the 14th he is to proceed direct to New Providence, if 
unsuccessful, there to land Mr Jigmaree, and the dockyard 
negroes, and await your return from the northward, after 
having seen the merchantmen clear of the Caicos passage. 
When you have rejoined the Wave at Nassau, you are to 
proceed with her as your tender to Crooked Island, and there 
to await instructions from the Vice Admiral, which shall 
be transmitted by the packet to sail on the 9th proximo, to 
the care of the postmaster. I have the honour to be, sir, your 
obedient servant, 

“ , Sec. 

“To the Hon. Captain Transom, 

“ &c. &c. &c.” 

To say sooth, I was by no means amorous of this inde- 
pendent command, as an idea had, at the time I speak of. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


345 


gone abroad in the navy, that lieutenants commanding small 
vessels seldom rose higher, unless through extraordinary 
interest, and I took the liberty of stating my repugnance to 
my captain. 

He smiled and threw over another letter to me ; it was a 
private one from the Admiral’s Secretary, and was as fol- 
lows : — 

( Confidential .) 

“ My Dear Transom, 

“ The Vice-Admiral has got a hint from Sir , to 

kick that wild splice, young Cringle, about a bit. It seems 
he is a nephew of Old Blueblazes, and as he has taken a 
fancy to the lad, he has promised his mother that he will 
do his utmost to give him opportunities of being knocked on 
the head, for all of which the old lady has professed herself 
wonderfully indebted. As the puppy has peculiar notions, 
hint, directly or indirectly, that he is not to be permanently 
bolted down to the little Wave, and that if half-a-dozen 
skippers (you, my darling, among the rest) were to evaporate 
during the approaching hot months, he may have some small 
chance of t’other swab. Write me, and mind the claret and 
curagoa. Put no address on either ; and on coming to 
anchor, send notice to old Peterkin in the lodge at the Master 
Attendant’s, and he will relieve you and the pie s de gallo * 
some calm evening, of all farther trouble regarding them. 
Don’t forget the turtle from Crooked Island, and the cigars. 

“ Always, my dear Transom, 

“ Yours sincerely, 

U )f 

“ Oh, I forgot. The Admiral begs you will spare him 
some steady old hands to act as gunner, boatswain, &c. — 
elderly men, if you please, who will shorten sail before the 
squall strikes them. If you float away with a crew of boys, 
the little scamp will get bothered, or capsized, in a jiffy. All 
this for your worship’s government. How do you live with 
your passenger — prime fellow, an’t he? My love to him. 
Lady is dying to see him again.” 

“ Well, Mr Cringle, what say you? ” 

“Of course, I must obey, sir; — highly flattered by Mr 
Secretary’s good opinion, any how.” The captain laughed 
heartily. 

“It is nearly calm, I see. We must set about manning 

* Custom-house officers, from the resemblance of the broad arrow, or 
mark of seizure, to the impression of a fowl’s foot. 


346 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


this seventy-four for you, without delay. So, come along. 
Captain Cringle.” 

When we got on deck, — “Hail the Wave to close, Mr 
Yerk — I shall go in the yawl,” said Transom. “ Lower away 
the boat, and pipe away the yawlers, boatswain’s mate,” 
quoth Yerk. 

Presently the captain and I were on the Wave’s deck, where 
I was much surprised to find no less a personage than Pepper- 
pot Wagtail, and Paul Gelid, Esquires. Mr Gelid, a conch, 
or native of the Bahamas, was the same yawning, drawling, 
long-legged Creole as ever. He had been ill with fever, and 
had asked a passage to Nassau, where his brother was estab- 
lished. At bottom, however, he was an excellent fellow, 
warm-hearted, honourable, and upright. As for little Wag- 
tail — oh, he was a delight! — a small round man, with all 
the Jamaica Creole irritability of temper, but also all the 
Jamaica warmth of heart about him — straightforward, and 
scrupulously conscientious in his dealings, but devoted to 
good cheer in every shape. He had also been ailing, and had 
adventured on the cruise in order to recruit. I scarcely know 
how to describe his figure better than by comparing his cor- 
pus to an egg, with his little feet stuck through the bottom 
of the shell ; but he was amazingly active withal. 

Both the captain and myself were rejoiced to see our old 
friends; and it was immediately fixed that they should go 
on board the corvette, and sling their cots alongside of Mr 
Bang, so long as the courses of the two vessels lay together. 
This being carried into execution, we set about our arrange- 
ments. Our precious blockheads at the dockyard had fitted a 
thirty-two pound carronade on the pivot, and stuck two long 
sixes, one on each side of the little vessel. I hate carronades. 
I had, before now, seen thirty-two pound shot thrown by them 
jump off a ship’s side with a rebound like a football, when a 
shot from an eighteen pounder long gun went crash, at the 
same range, through both sides of the ship, whipping off a leg 
and arm, or aiblins a head or two, in its transit. 

“ My dear sir,” said I, “ don’t shove me adrift with that old 
pot there — do lend me one of your long brass eighteen 
pounders.” 

“Why, Mr Cringle, what is your antipathy to carro- 
nades ? ” 

“ I have no absolute antipathy to them, sir — they are all 
very well in their way. For instance, I wish you would fit 
me with two twelve-pound carronades instead of those two 
popgun long sixes. These, with thirty muskets, and thirty- 
five men or so, would make me very complete.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


347 


“ A modest request,” said Captain Transom. 

“ Now, Tom Cringle, you have overshot your mark, my fine 
fellow,” thought I; but it was all right, and that forenoon 
the cutter was hoisted out with the guns in her, and the 
others dismounted and sent back in exchange; and in fine, 
after three days’ hard work, I took the command of TI.B.M. 
schooner. Wave, with Timothy Tailtackle as gunner, the 
senior midshipman as master, one of the carpenter’s crew as 
carpenter, and a boatswain’s mate as boatswain, a surgeon’s 
mate as surgeon, the captain’s clerk as purser, and thirty 
foremast-men, besides the blaclcies, as the crew. But the sail- 
ing of the little beauty had been regularly spoiled. We could 
still in light winds weather on the corvette, it is true, but 
then she was a slow top, unless it blew half a gale of wind; 
and as for going any thing free, why, a sand barge would 
have beaten us. — We kept company with the Firebrand un- 
til we weathered Cape Maize. It was near five o’clock in the 
afternoon, the corvette was about half a mile on our lee-bow, 
when, while walking the deck, after an early dinner, Tail- 
tackle came up to me. 

“ The Commodore has hove-to, sir.” 

“Very like,” said I, “to allow the merchant ships to close, 
I presume.” 

“ A gun,” said little Reefpoint. “ Ah — what signal 
now ? ” — It was the signal to close. 

“Put the helm up and run down to him,” said I. It was 
done — and presently the comfortable feeling of bowling 
along before the breeze, succeeded the sharp yerking digging 
motion of a little vessel, tearing and pitching through a head 
sea, close upon a wind. The water was buzzing under our 
bows, and we were once more close on the stern of the cor- 
vette. There was a boat alongside ready manned. The cap- 
tain hailed, “I send your orders on board, Mr Cringle, to 
bear up on your separate cruise.” At the same moment the 
Firebrand’s ensign and pennant were hoisted — we did the 
same — a gun from the Commodore — ditto from the tidy 
little Wave — and lo! Thomas Cringle, esquire, launched 
for the first time on his own bottom. 

By this time the boat was alongside, with Messieurs Aaron 
Bang, Pepperpot Wagtail, and Paul Gelid — the former with 
his cot, and half-a-dozen cases of wine, and some pigs, and 
some poultry, all under the charge of his black servant. 

“ Hillo,” said I — “Mr Wagtail is at home here, you know, 
Mr Bang, and so is Mr Gelid; but to what lucky chance am 
I indebted for your society, my dear sir ? ” 

“ Thank your stars, Tom — Captain Cringle, I beg pardon 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


348 

— and be grateful; I am sick of rumbling tumbling in com- 
pany with these heavy tools of merchantmen, so I entreated 
Transom to let me go and take a turn with you, promising to 
join the Firebrand again at Nassau.” 

“ Why, I am delighted,” — and so I really was. “But, 
my dear sir — I may lead you a dance, and, peradventure, 
into trouble — a small vessel may catch a Tartar, you know.” 

“ D — n the expense,” rejoined my jovial ally; “why, the 
hot little epicurean Y/agtail, and Gelid, cold and frozen as 
he is, have both taken a fancy to me — and no wonder, know- 
ing my pleasant qualities as they do — ahem; so, for their 
sakes, I volunteer on this piece of knight-errantry as much 
as ” 

“ Poo — you be starved, Aaron, dear,” rapped out little 
Wagtail; “you came here, because you thought you should 
have more fun, and escape the formality of the big ship, and 
eke the captain’s sour claret.” 

“Ah,” said Gelid, “my fine fellow,” with his usual Creole 
drawl, “ you did not wait for my opinion. Ah — oh — why. 
Captain Cringle, a thousand pardons. Friend Bang, there, 
swears that he can’t do without you; and all he says about 
me is neither more nor less than humbug — ah.” 

“ My lovely yellow snake,” quoth Aaron, “ and my amiable 
dumpling gentlemen both, now do hold your tongues. — Why, 
Tom, here we are, never you mind how, after half a quarrel 
with the skipper — will you take us, or will you send us back, 
like rejected addresses ? ” 

“ Send you back, my boys ! No, no, too happy to get you.” 
Another boat from the corvette. “ Firebrands, you must 
shove off. My compliments, Wiggins, to the captain, and 
there’s a trifle for you to drink my health when you get into 
port.” The boat shoved off — the corvette filled her maintop- 
sail. “ Put the helm up — ease off the mainsheet — stand by to 
run up the squaresail. How is her head, Mr Tailtackle ? ” 

Timothy gave a most extraordinary grin at my bestowing 
the Mister on him for the first time. 

“ North-west, sir.” 

“Keep her so” — and having bore up, we rapidly widened 
our distance from the Commodore and the fleet. 

All men know, or should know, that on board of a man- 
of-war, there is never any “yo heave oh’ing.” That is con- 
fined to merchant vessels. But when the crew are having 
a strong pull of any rope, it is allowable for the man next 
the belaying pin, to sing out, in order to give unity to the 
drag, “ one — two — three,” the strain of the other men in- 
creasing with the figure. The tack of the mainsail had got 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 349 

jammed somehow, and on my desiring it to be hauled up, the 
men, whose province it was, were unable to start it. 

“ Something foul aloft,” said I. 

Tailtackle came up. “ What are you fiddling at, men? 
Give me here — one — two — three.” 

Crack went the strands of the rope under the paws of the 
Titan, whereby the head of the outermost sailor pitched 
right into Gelid’s stomach, knocked him over, and capsized 
him head foremost into the wind sail which was -let down 
through the skylight into the little well cabin of the schooner. 
It so happened that there was a bucket full of Spanish 
brown paint standing on the table in the cabin, right below 
the hoop of the canvass funnel, and into it popped the 
august pate of Paul Gelid, esquire. Bang had, in the mean- 
time, caught him by the heels, and with the assistance of 
Pearl, the handsome negro formerly noticed, who, from his 
steadiness, had been spared to me as quartermaster, the conch 
was once more hoisted on deck, with a scalp of red paint, 
reaching down over his eyes. 

“ I say,” quoth Bang, “ Gelid, my darling, not quite so 
smooth as the real Macassar, eh ? Shall I try my hand — can 
shave beautifully — eh ? ” 

“ Ah,” drawled Gelid, “ don’t require it — lucky my head 
was shaved in that last fever, Aaron dear. Ah — let me think 
— you tall man — you sailor-fellow — ah — do me the favour 
to scrape me with your knife — ah — and pray call my ser- 
vant.” 

Timothy, to whom he had addressed himself, set to, and 
scraped the red paint off his poll; and having called his ser- 
vant, Chew Chew, handed him over to the negro, who, giving 
his arm to him, helped him below, and with the assistance of 
Cologne water, contrived to scrub him decently clean. 

As the evening fell, the breeze freshened; and during the 
night it blew strong, so that from the time we bore up, and 
parted company with the Firebrand, until day-dawn next 
morning, we had run 130 miles or thereby to the northward 
and westward, and were then on the edge of the Great Ba- 
hama Bank. The breeze now failed us, and we lay roasting 
in the sun until mid-day, the current sweeping us to the 
northward, and still farther on to the bank, until the water 
shoaled to three fathoms. At this time the sun was blazing 
fiercely right overhead ; and from the shallowness of the 
water, there was not the smallest swell, or undulation of the 
surface. The sea, as far as the eye could reach, was a spark- 
ling light green, from the snow-white sand at the bottom, as 
if a level desert had been suddenly submersed under a few 


35 ° 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


feet of crystal clear water, which formed a cheery spectacle, 
when compared with the customary leaden, or dark blue 
colour of the rolling fathomless sea. It was now dead 
calm. — “Fishing lines there — Idlers, fishing lines,” said I; 
and in a minute there were forty of them down over the side. 

In Europe, fish in their shapes partake of the sedate char- 
acter of the people who inhabit the coasts of the seas or 
rivers in which they swim — at least I think so. The salmon, 
the trout, the cod, and all the other tribes of the finny people, 
are reputable in their shapes, and altogether respectable- 
looking creatures. But within the tropics. Dame Nature 
plays strange vagaries ; and here, on the Great Bahama Bank, 
every new customer, as he floundered in on deck — no joke 
to him, poor fellow — elicited shouts of laughter from the 
crew. They were in no respect shaped like fish of our cold 
climates; some were all head — others all tail — some, so far 
as shape went, had their heads where, with submission, I 
conceived their tails should have been; and then the colours, 
the intense brilliancy of the scales of these monst?-ous- looking 
animals. We hooked up a lot of bonitos, lOlbs. a-piece, at 
the least. But Wagtail took small account of them. 

“ Here,” said Bang, at this moment, “ by all that is won- 
derful, look here ! ” And he drew up a fish about a foot long, 
with a crop like a pigeon of the tumbler kind, which began 
to make a loud snorting noise. 

“ Ah,” drawled Gelid, “ good fish, with claret sauce.” 

“Daresay,” rejoined Aaron; “but do your Bahama fish 
speak, Paul, eh? — Balaam’s ass was a joke to this fellow.” 

I have already said that the water was not quite three 
fathoms deep, and it was so clear that I could see down to 
the very sand, and there were the fish cruising about in great 
numbers. 

“ Haul in, Wagtail — you have hooked him,” and up came 
a beautiful black grouper, about four pounds weight. 

“ Ah, there is the regular jiggery-jiggery,” sung out little 
Reefpomt, at the same moment, as he in turn began to pull 
up his line. “ Stand by to land him,” and a red snapper, for 
all the world like a gigantic gold fish, was hauled on board ; 
and so we carried on, black snappers, red snappers, and rock 
fish, and a vast variety, for all of which, however, Wagtail 
had names pat, until at length I caught a most lovely dolphin 
— a beauty to look at — but dry, terribly dry to eat. I cast 
it on the deck, and the cameleon tints of the dying fish, about 
which so many lies have been said and sung, were just be- 
ginning to fade, and wax pale, and ashy, and death-like, 
when I felt another strong jiggery-jiggery at my line, which 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


35 1 

little Reefpoint had, in the meantime, baited afresh. 
“ Zounds ! I have caught a whale — a shark at the very least” 
— and I pulled him in, hand over hand. 

“ A most noble J ew fish,” said I. 

“A Jew fish! ” responded Wagtail. 

“A Jew fish! ” said Aaron Bang. 

“A J ew fish ! ” said Paul Gelid. 

“My dear Cringle,” continued Wagtail, “when do you 
dine?” 

“ At three, as usual.” 

“ Then, Mr Reefpoint, will you have the great kindness 
to cast off your sink, and hook that splendid fellow by the 
tail — only through the gristle — don’t prick him in the flesh 
— and let him meander about till half -past two ? ” 

Reefy was half inclined to be angry at the idea of his 
Majesty’s officer being converted into a cook’s mate. 

“ Why,” said I, “ we shall put him in a tub of water here 
on deck, Mr Wagtail, if you please.” 

“ God bless me, no ! ” quoth the gastronome. “ Why, he 
is strong as an eagle, and will smash himself to mummy in 
half an hour in a tub. No — no — see, he weighs twelve 
pounds at the very lightest. Lord! Mr Cringle, I am sur- 
prised at you.” 

The fish was let overboard again, according to his desire, 
and hauled in at the very moment he indicated by his watch, 
when, having seen him cut up and cleaned, with his own 
eyes — I believe I may say with his own hands — he betook 
himself to his small crib to dress. 

At dinner our Creole friend was very entertaining. Bang 
drew him out, and had him to talk on all his favourite topics, 
in a most amusing manner. All at once Gelid lay back on 
his chair. 

“ My God,” said he, “ I have broken my tooth with that 
confounded hard biscuit — terrible — really ; ah ! ” — and he 
screwed up his face, as if he had been eating sour-crout, or 
had heard of the death of a dear friend. 

“ Poo,” quoth Aaron, “ any combmaker will furnish you 
forth as good as new ; those grinders you brag of are not your 
own Gelid, you know that.” 

“ Indeed, Aaron, my dear, I know nothing of the kind ; but 
this I know, that I have broken a most lovely white front 
tooth, ah ! ” — 

“ Oh, you be hanged,” said Aaron ; “why, you have been 
bechopped any time these ten years, I know.” 

The time wore on, and it might have been half-past seven 
when we went on deck. 


352 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


It was a very dark night— Tailtaekle had the watch. “Any 
thing in sight, Mr Tailtaekle?” 

“ Why, no, sir ; but I have just asked your steward for 
your night-glass, as, once or twice — but it is so thick — Pray, 
sir, how far are we off the Hole in the Wall? ” 

“ Why, sixty miles at the least.” 

The Hole in the Wall is a very remarkable rock in the 
Crooked Island Passage, greatly resembling, as the name 
betokens, a wall breached by the sea, or by battering cannon, 
which rises abruptly out of the water, to a height of forty 
feet. 

“ Then,” quoth Tailtaekle sharply, “ there must be a sail 
close aboard of us, to windward there.” 

“ Where ? ” said I. “ Quick, send for my night-glass.” 

“ I have it here in my hand, sir.” 

“Let me see” — and I peered through it until my eyes 
ached again. I could see nothing, and resumed my walk on 
the quarterdeck. Tailtaekle, in the meantime, continued to 
look through the telescope, and as I turned from aft to walk 
forward, a few minutes after this — “ Why, sir,” said he. 
“ it clears a bit, and I see the object that has puzzled me 
again.” 

“ Eh ? give me the glass” — in a second I caught it. “ By 
Jupiter, you say true, Tailtaekle! beat to quarters — quick — 
clear away the long gun forward there ! ” 

All was bustle for a minute. I kept my eye on the object, 
but I could not make out more, than that it was a strange 
sail; I could neither judge of her size nor her rig, from the 
distance, and the extreme darkness of the night. At length 
I handed the glass to Tailtaekle again. We were at this time 
standing in towards the Cuba shore, with a fine breeze, and 
going along seven knots, as near as could be. 

“ Give the glass to Mr Jigmaree, Mr Tailtaekle, and come 
forward here, and see all snug.” 

The long gun was slewed round — both carronades were 
run out, all three being loaded, double-shotted, and carefully 
primed — the whole crew, with our black supernumeraries, 
being at quarters. 

“ I see her quite distinct now, sir,” sung out Timotheus. 

“Well, what looks she like?” 

“ A large brig, sir, by the wind on the same tack — you 
can see her now without the glass — there — with the naked 
eye.” 

I looked, and certainly fancied I saw some towering object 
rising high and dark to windward, like some mighty spectre 
walking the deep, but I could discern nothing more. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


353 

u She is a large vessel, sure enough, sir,” said Timothy once 
more — “ now she is hauling up her courses, sir — she takes in 
topgallant sails — why, she is bearing up across our bows, sir 
— mind she don’t rake us.” 

“ The deuce ! ” said I. I now saw the chase very distinctly 
bear up. “ Put the helm up — keep her away a bit — steady 
— that will do — fire a shot across her bows, Mr Tailtackle — 
and, Mr Reefpoint, shew the private signal.” The gun was 
fired, and the lights shewn, but our spectral friend was all 
darkness and silence. “ Mr Scarfemwell,” said I to the car- 
penter, “ stand by the long gun. Tailtackle, I don’t like that 
chap — open the magazine.” By this time the strange sail 
was on our quarter — we shortened sail, while he, finding that 
his manoeuvre of crossing our bows had been foiled by our 
bearing up also, got the foretack on board again, and set his 
topgallant sails, all very cleverly. He was not far out of 
pistol-shot. Tailtackle, in his shirt and trowsers, and felt 
shoes, now stuck his head up the main hatchway. 

“ I would recommend your getting the hatches on, sir — 
that fellow is not honest, sir, take my word for it.” 

“ Never mind, Mr Tailtackle, never mind. Forward, there; 
Mr Jigmaree, slap a round shot into him, since he won’t 
speak, or heave to — right between his masts, do you hear — 
are you ready ? ” 

“ All ready, sir.” 

“ Fire.” The gun was fired, and simultaneously we heard 
a crash on board the strange sail, followed by a piercfng yell, 
similar to what the negroes raise over a dead comrade, and 
then a long melancholy howl. 

“ A slaver, and the shot has told, sir,” said Mr Handland, 
the master. 

“ Then we shall have some fun for it,” thought I. I had 
scarcely spoken, when the brig once more shortened sail ; and 
the instant that the foresail rose, he let fly his bow gun at us 
— then another, another, and another. 

“Nine guns of a side, as I am a sinner,” quoth Jigmaree; 
and three of the shot struck us, mortally wounded one poor 
fellow, and damaged poor little Reefy by a splinter in the 
side. 

“ Stand by, men — take good aim — fire” — and we again let 
drive the long gun and carronade; but our friend was too 
quick for us, for by this time he had once more hauled his 
wind, and made sail as close to it as he could stagger. We 
crowded every thing in chase, but he had the heels of us, and 
in an hour he was once more nearly out of sight in the dark 
night, right to windward. 


354 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Keep at him, Mr Jigmaree;” and as I feared he was 
running us in under the land, I dived to consult the chart. 
There, in the cabin, I found Wagtail, Gelid, and Bang, sit- 
ting smoking on each side of the small table, with some 
brandy and water before them. 

“Ah,” quoth Gelid, “ah! fighting a little? Not pleasant 
in the evening, certainly.” 

“ Confound you,” said Aaron, “ why will you bother at this 
awkward moment ? ” 

Meanwhile Wagtail was a good deal discomposed. 

“ My dear fellow, hand me over that devilled biscuit.” 

Bang handed him over the dish, slipping into it some frag- 
ments of ship biscuit, as hard as flint. All this time, I was 
busy poring over the chart. Wagtail took up a piece and 
popt it into his mouth. 

“Zounds, Bang — my dear Aaron, what dentist are you 
in league with? Gelid first breaks his pet fang, and now 
you ” 

“Poo, poo,” quoth his friend, “don’t bother now — hillo — 
what the deuce — I say, Wagtail — Gelid, my lad, look there” 
—as one of the seamen, with another following him, brought 
down on his back the poor fellow who had been wounded, 
and laid his bloody load on the table. To those who are un- 
acquainted with these matters, it may be right to say, that 
the captain’s cabin, in a small vessel like the Wave, is often 
in an emergency used as a cockpit — and so it was in the 
present instance. 

“Beg pardon, captain and gentlemen,” said the surgeon, 
“ but I must, I fear, perform an ugly operation on this poor 
fellow. I fancy you had better go on deck, gentlemen.” 

Now I had an opportunity to see of what sterling metal 
my friends were at bottom made. Mr Bang in a twinkling 
had his coat off. 

“Doctor, I can be of use, I know it — no skill, but steady 
nerves,” — although he had reckoned a leetle without his host 
here. “And I can swathe a bandage too, although no sur- 
geon,” said Wagtail. 

Gelid said nothing, but he was in the end the best sur- 
geon’s mate amongst them. The poor fellow, Wiggins, one 
of the captain’s gigs, and a most excellent man, in quarter- 
deck parlance, was now laid on the table — a fine handsome 
young fellow, faint and pale, very pale, but courageous as a 
lion, even in his extremity. It appeared that a round shot 
had shattered his leg above the knee. A tourniquet had 
been applied on his thigh, and there was not much bleed- 
ing. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


355 


“ Captain,” said the poor fellow, while Bang supported 
him in his arms — “ I shall do yet, sir ; indeed I have no great 
pain.” 

All this time the surgeon was cutting off his trowsers, and 
then, to be sure, a terrible spectacle presented itself. The 
foot and leg, blue and shrunk, were connected with the thigh 
by a band of muscle about two inches wide, and an inch 
thick; that fined away to a bunch of white tendons or sinews 
at the knee, which again swelled out as they melted into the 
muscles of the calf of the leg; but as for the knee-bone, it 
was smashed to pieces, leaving white spikes protruding from 
the shattered limb above, as well as from the shank beneath. 
The doctor gave the poor fellow a large dose of laudanum in 
a glass of brandy, and then proceeded to amputate the limb, 
high up on the thigh. Bang stood the knife part of it very 
steadily, but the instant the saw rasped against the shattered 
bone he shuddered. 

“ I am going. Cringle — can’t stand that — sick as a dog” — 
and he was so faint that I had to relieve him in supporting 
the poor fellow. Wagtail had also to go on deck, but Paul 
Gelid remained firm as a rock. The limb was cut off, the 
arteries taken up very cleverly, and the surgeon was in the 
act of slacking the tourniquet a little, when the thread that 
fastened the largest, or femoral artery, suddenly gave way — 
a gush like the jet from a fire-engine took place. The poor 
fellow had just time to cry out, “ Take that cold hand off 
my heart ! ” when his chest collapsed, his jaw fell, and in an 
instant his pulse stopped. 

“ Dead as Julius Caesar, captain,” said Gelid, with his usual 
deliberation. Dead enough, thought I; and I was leaving 
the cabin to resume my post on deck, when I stumbled 
against something at the ladder foot. 

“ Why, what is that ? ” grumbled I. 

“ It is me, sir,” said a small faint voice. 

“ You ! who are you ? ” 

“Reefpoint, sir.” 

“ Bless me, boy, what are you doing here? Not hurt, I 
hope ? ” 

“ A little, sir — a graze from a splinter, sir — the same shot 
that struck poor Wiggins knocked it off, sir.” 

“ Why did you not go to the doctor, then, Mr Reef- 
point ? ” 

“ I waited till he was done with Wiggins, sir; but now, 
since it is all over with him, I will go and be dressed.” 

ITis voice grew fainter and fainter, until I could scarcely 
hear him. I got him in my arms, and helped him into the 


356 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


cabin, where, on stripping the poor little fellow, it was found 
that he was much hurt on the right side, just above the hip. 
Bang’s kind heart, for by this time a glass of water had 
cured him of his faintness, shone conspicuous on this oc- 
casion. 

“ Why, Reefy — little Reefy — you are not hurt, my man — 
Surely you are not wounded — such a little fellow — I should 
have as soon thought of firing at a musquito.” 

“ Indeed, sir, but I am ; see here.” Bang looked at the 
hurt, as he supported the wounded midshipman in his 
arms. 

“ God help me,” said the excellent fellow, “ you seem to me 
fitter for your mother’s nursery, my poor dear boy, than to 
be knocked about in this coarse way here.” 

Reefy, at this moment, fell over into his arms, in a dead 
faint. 

“ You must take my berth, with the captain’s permission,” 
said Aaron, while he and Wagtail undressed him with the 
greatest care, and placed him in the narrow crib. 

“ Thank you, my dear sir,” moaned little Reefpoint ; “ were 
my mother here, sir, she would thank you too.” 

Stern duty now called me on deck, and I heard no more. 
The night was still very dark, and I could see nothing of the 
chase, but I made all the sail I could in the direction which 
I calculated she would steer, trusting that, before morning, 
we might get another glimpse of her. In a little while Bang 
came on deck. 

“ I say, Tom, now since little Reefy is asleep — what think 
you — big craft that — nearly caught a Tartar — not very sorry 
he has escaped, eh ? ” 

“ Why, my dear sir, I trust he has not escaped ; I hope, 
when the day breaks, now since we have less wind, that we 
may have a tussle with him yet.” 

“ No, you don’t wish it, do you, really and truly? ” 

“ Indeed I do, sir; and the only thing which bothers me 
is the peril that you and your friends must necessarily en- 
counter.” 

“Poo, poo, don’t mind us, Tom, don’t mind us; but an’t 
he too big for you, Tom? ” 

He said this in such a comical way, that, for the life of 
me, I could not help laughing. 

“ Why, we shall see ; but attack him I must, and shall, if 
I can get at him. However, we shall wait till morning; so 
I recommend your turning in now, since they have cleared 
away the cockpit out of the cabin; so good night, my dear 
sir — I must stay here, I fear.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 357 

“ Good night, Tom; God bless you. I shall go and com- 
fort Wagtail and Paul.” 

I was at this time standing well aft on the larboard side 
of the deck, close abaft to the tiller-rope, so that, with no 
earthly disposition to be an eavesdropper, I could neither 
help seeing nor hearing what was going on in the cabin, as 
the small open skylight was close to my foot. All vestiges 
of the cockpit had been cleared away, and the table was laid 
for supper. Wagtail and Gelid were sitting on the side I 
stood on, so that I -could not see them, although I heard 
every word they said. Presently Bang entered, and sat 
down opposite his allies. He crossed his arms, and leant 
down over the table, looking at them steadily. 

“ My dear Aaron,” I could hear little Wagtail say, “ speak, 
man, don’t frighten a body so.” 

“ Ah, Bang,” drawled out Paul, “ jests are good, being 
well timed; what can you mean by that face of yours now, 
since the fighting is all over ? ” 

My curiosity fairly overcame my good manners, and I 
moved round more amidships, so as to command a view of 
both parties, as they sat opposite each other at the narrow 
table. 

Bang still held his peace for another minute; at length, 
in a very solemn tone, he said, “ Gentlemen, do you ever 
say your prayers ? ” I don’t know if I mentioned it before, 
but Aaron had a most musical deep mellow voice, and now 
it absolutely thrilled to my very soul. 

Wagtail and Paul looked at him, and then at each other, 
with a most absurd expression — between fear and jest — be- 
tween crying and laughing — but gave him no answer. 

“Are you, my lads, such blockheads as to be ashamed to 
acknowledge that you say your prayers ? ” 

“ Ah,” said Gelid, “ why, ah no — not — that is ” 

“ Oh, you Catholics are all so bigoted. I suppose we 
should cross ourselves, eh?” said Wagtail hastily. 

“I am a Catholic, Master Wagtail,” rejoined Bang — 
“better that than nothing. Before sunrise, we may both 
have proved the truth of our creeds, if you have one; but if 
you mean it as a taunt, Wagtail, it does discredit to your 
judgment to select such a moment, to say nothing of your 
heart. Plowever, you cannot make me angry with you, 
Pepperpot, yoju little Creole wasp, do as you will.” A slight 
smile here curled Aaron’s lip for an instant, although he 
immediately resumed the solemn tone in which he had pre- 
viously spoken. “ But I had hoped that two such old friends, 
as you both have been to me, would not altogether have 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


358 

made up their minds in cold blood, if advertised of their 
danger, to run the chance of dying like dogs in a ditch, with- 
out one preparatory thought towards that tremendous Being, 
before whom we may all stand before morning.” 

“Murder!” quoth Wagtail, fairly frightened; “are you 
really serious, Aaron? I did not — would not, for the world, 
hurt your feelings in earnest, my dear; why do you desire 
so earnestly to know whether or not I ever say my prayers ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t bother, man,” rejoined Bang, resuming his 
usual friendly tone ; “ you had better say boldly that you do 
not, without any roundaboutation.” 

“ But why, my dear Bang, why do you ask the question ? ” 
persisted Wagtail, in a deuced quandary. 

“ Simply,” — and here our friend’s voice once more fell to 
the low deep serious tone in which he had opened the con- 
ference, — “ simply because, in my humble estimation, if you 
don’t say your prayers to-night, it is three to one you shall 
never pray again.” 

“ The deuce ! ” said Pepperpot, twisting himself in all di- 
rections, as if his inexpressibles had been nailed to his seat, 
and he was trying to escape from them. “ What, in the 
devil’s name, mean you, man ? ” 

“ I mean neither more nor less than what I say. I speak 
English, don’t I? I say, that that pestilent young fellow, 
Cringle, told me half an hour ago, that he was determined, 
as he words it, to stick to this Guineaman, who is three times 
his size, has eighteen guns, while Master Tommy has only 
three; and whose crew, I will venture to say, triples our 
number; and the snipe, from what I know of him, is the 
very man to keep his word — so what say you, my darling, 
eh?” 

“ Ah, very inconvenient, ah, — I shall stay below,” said 
Paul. 

“ So shall I,” quoth Pepperpot ; “won’t stick my nose on 
deck, Aaron dear, no, not for the whole world.” 

“Why,” said Bang, in the same steady low tone, “you 
shall do as you please, ah,” — and here he very successfully 
imitated our amigo Gelid’s drawl — “ and as best suits you, 
ah; but I have consulted the gunner, an old ally of mine, 
who, to be plain with you — ah — says that the danger from 
splinter wounds below, is much greater than from their mus- 
ketry on deck — ah — the risk from the round shot being pretty 
equal — ah — in either situation.” At this announcement you 
could have jumped down either Wagtail’s or Gelid’s throat, 
— Wagtail’s for choice, — without touching their teeth. “ Far- 
ther, the aforesaid Timothy, and be hanged to him, deponeth. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


359 


that the only place in a small vessel where we could have 
had a moderate chance of safety was the run, — so called, I 
presume, from people running to it for safety; but where the 
deuce this sanctuary is situated I know not, nor does it 
signify greatly, for it is now converted into a spare powder 
magazine, and of course sealed to us. So here we are, my 
lads, in as neat a taking as ever three unfortunate gentlemen 
were in, in this weary world. However, now since I have 
comforted you, let us go to bed — time enough to think on all 
this in the morning, and I am consumedly tired.” 

I heard no more, and resumed my solitary walk on deck, 
peering every now and then through the night-glass, until 
my eyes ached again. The tedious night at length wore 
away, and the gray dawn found me sound asleep, leaning 
out at the gangway. They had scarcely begun to wash down 
the decks, when we discerned our friend of the preceding 
night, about four miles to windward, close hauled on the 
same tack, apparently running in for the Cuba shore, as fast 
as canvass would carry him. If this was his object, we had 
proved too quick for him, as by casting off stays, and slack- 
ing shrouds, and, in every way we could think of, loosening 
the rigid trim of the little vessel, we had in a great measure 
recovered her sailing; so when he found he was cut off from 
the land, he resolutely bore up, took in his topgallant-sails, 
hauled up his courses, fired a gun, and hoisted his large 
Spanish ensign, all in regular man-of-war fashion. By this 
time it was broad daylight, and Wagtail, Gelid and Bang, 
were all three on deck, performing their morning ablutions. 
As for myself, I was well forward, near the long gun. Peg- 
top, Mr Bang’s black valet, came up to me. 

“ Please, Massa Captain, can you spare me any muskets ? ” 

“ Any muskets ? ” said I ; “ why, half-a-dozen if you 
choose.” 

“ De wery number my massa told me to hax for. Tank 
you, Massa Captain.” And forthwith he and the other two 
black servants in attendance on Wagtail and Gelid, each 
seized his two muskets out of the arm-chest, with the cor- 
responding ammunition, and, like so many sable Robinson 
Crusoes, were stumping aft, when I again accosted the afore- 
said Pegtop. 

“ I say, my man, now since you have got the muskets, does 
your master really intend to fight ? ” The negro stopped 
short, and faced right round, his countenance expressing 
very great surprise and wonderment. “ Massa Bang fight! 
Massa Aaron Bang fight ? ” and he looked up in my face with 
the most serio-comic expression that could be imagined. 


360 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Ah, massa,” continued the poor fellow, — “you is joking — 
surely you is joking — my Massa Aaron Bang fight? Oh, 
massa, surely you can’t know he — surely you never see him 
shoot snipe, and wild-duck — oh dear, why him kill wild-duck 
on de wing — ah, me often see him knock down teal wid 
single ball, one hundred — ah, one hundred and fifty yards — 
and man surely more big mark den teal ? ” 

“ Granted,” I said ; “ but a teal has not a loaded musket 
in its claws, as a Spanish bucanier may have — a small dif- 
ference, Master Pegtop, in that ? ” 

“ None at all, massa,” chimed in Pegtop, very energetically 
— “ I myshef, Gabriel Pegtop, Christian man as me is, am 
one of de Falmouth black shot. Ah, I have been in de woods 
wid Massa Aaron — one time particular, when dem wery 
debils, Sambo Moses, Corromantee Tom, and Eboe Peter, 
took to de bush, at Crabyaw estate — after breakfast — ten 
black shot — me was one — go out along wid our good massa, 
Massa Aaron. O Lord, we walk troo de cool wood, and over 
de hot cleared ground, six hour, when every body say, — ‘ No 
use dis, Massa Bang — all we tired too much — must stop here 
— kindle fire — cook wittal.’ ‘ Ah, top dem who hab white 
liver,’ said Massa Aaron; ‘you, Pegtop, take you fusee and 
cutlass, and follow me, my shild’ — Massa Aaron alway call 
me him shild, and troo enough, as parson Calaloo say, him 
family wery much like Joseph coat — many colour among 
dem, massa — though none quite so deep as mine eider” — and 
here the negro grinned at his own jest. “ Well, I was fol- 
low him, or rader was go before him, opening up de pass wid 
me cutlass, troo de wery tangle underwood. We walk four 
hour, — see no one — all still and quiet — no breeze shake de 
tree — oh, I sweat too much — dem hot, massa — sun shine 
right down, when we could catch glimpse of him — yet no 
trace of de runaways. At length, on turning corner, perched 
on small platform of rock, overshadowed by plumes of bam- 
boos, like ostrich feather lady wear at de ball, who shall we 
see but dem wery dividual d — rascail I was mention, stand- 
ing all tree, each wid one carabine pointed at us, at him 
shoulder, and cutlass at him side? ‘Pegtop, my boy,’ said 
Massa Aaron, ‘we is in for it — follow me, but don’t fire.’ 
So him pick off Sambo Moses — oh ! cool as one cucumber. 

‘ Now,’ say he, ‘man to man,’ — and wid dat him tro him gun 
on de ground, and drawing him cutlass, we push up — in one 
moment him and Corromantee Tom close. Tom put up him 
hand to fend him head — whip — ah — massa cutlass shred de 
hand, at de wrist, like one carrot — down Tom go — atop of 
him jump Massa Aaron, I master de leetle one, Eboe Peter, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 361 

and we carry dem both prisoners into Falmouth. Massa 
Aaron fight ? Ah, massa, no hax dat question again.” 

“Well, but will Mr Gelid fight?” said I. 

“ I tink him will too — great friend of Massa Bang — good 
duck-shot too — oh yes, tink Massa Paul will fight.” 

“ Why,” said I, “ your friends are all heroes, Pegtop — will 
Mr Wagtail fight also?” He stole close up to me, and ex- 
changed his smart Creole gibberish for a quiet sedate accent, 
as he whispered — 

“ Not so sure of he — nice little fat man, but too fond of 
him belly. When I wait behind Massa Aaron chair, Pegtop 
sometime hear funny ting. One gentleman say — ‘ Ah, dat 
month we hear Lord Wellington take Saint Sebastian — 
when dat is, what time we hear dat news, Massa Wagtail! * 
him say — ‘Eh,’ say Massa Wagtail — ‘oh, we hear of dem 
news, dat wery day de first of de ringtail pigeon come to 
market.’ Den again, ‘ Dat big fight dem had at soch anoder 
place, when we hear of dat, Massa Wagtail?’ — say some- 
body else. — ‘ Oh, oh, de wery day we hab dat beautiful 
grouper wid claret sauce at Massa Whiffle’s/ Oh, make me 
laugh to hear white gentleman mark great fight in him mem- 
ory by what him eat de day de news come; so, Massa Cap- 
tain Cringle, me no quite sure weder Massa Wagtail will 
fight or no.” 

So saying, Pegtop, Chew Chew, and Yampea, each shoul- 
dered two muskets apiece and betook themselves to the after- 
part of the schooner, where they forthwith set themselves to 
scour, and oil, and clean the same, in a most skilful manner. 
I expected the breeze would have freshened as the day broke, 
but I was disappointed; it fell, towards six o’clock, nearly 
calm. Come, thought I, we may as well go to breakfast ; and 
my guests and I forthwith set down to our morning meal. 
Soon after, the wind died away altogether — and “out 
sweeps” was the word; but I soon saw we had no chance 
with the chase at this game, and as to attacking him with 
the boats, it was entirely out of the question; neither could 
I, in the prospect of a battle, afford to murder the people, by 
pulling all day under a roasting sun, against one who could 
man his sweeps with relays of slaves, without one of his crew 
putting a finger to them; so I reluctantly laid them in, and 
there I stood looking at him the whole forenoon, as he 
gradually drew a-head of us. At length I piped to dinner, 
and the men having finished theirs, were again on deck; but 
the calm still continued; and seeing no chance of it freshen- 
ing, about four in the afternoon we sat down to ours in the 
cabin. There was little said; my friends, although brave 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


362 

and resolute men, were naturally happy to see the brig 
creeping away from us, as fighting could only bring them 
danger; and my own feelings were of that mixed quality, 
that while I determined to do all I could to bring him to 
action, it would not have broken my heart had he escaped. 
We had scarcely finished dinner, however, when the rushing 
of the water past the run of the little vessel, and the steadi- 
ness with which she skimmed along, shewed that the light 
air had freshened. 

Presently Tailtackle came down. “ The breeze has set 
down, sir; the strange sail has got it strong to windward, 
and brings it along with him .cheerily.” 

“ Beat to quarters, then, Tailtackle ; all hands stand by to 
shorten sail. How is she standing ? ” 

“ Right down for us, sir.” 

I went on deck, and there was the Guineaman about two 
miles to windward, evidently cleared for action, with her 
decks crowded with men, bowling along steadily under her 
single-reefed topsails. 

I saw all clear. Wagtail and Gelid had followed me on 
deck, and were now busy with their black servants inspect- 
ing the muskets. But Bang still remained in the cabin. I 
went down. He was gobbling his last plantain, and forking 
up along with it most respectable slices of cheese, when I 
entered. 

I had seen before I left the deck that an action was now 
unavoidable, and judging from the disparity of force, I had 
my own doubts as to the issue. I need scarcely say that I 
was greatly excited. It was my first command: My future 
standing in the service depended on my conduct now , — and, 
God help me, I was all this while a mere lad, not more than 
twenty-one years old. A strange indescribable feeling had 
come over me, and an irresistible desire to disburden my 
mind to the excellent man before me. I sat down. 

“Hey day,” quoth Bang, as he laid down his coffee-cup; 
“why, Tom, what ails you? You look deuced pale, my 
boy.” 

“Up all night, sir, and bothered all day,” said I ; “ wearied 
enough, I can tell you.” 

I felt a strong tremor pervade my whole frame at this 
moment; and I was impelled to speak by some unknown im- 
pulse, which I could not account for, nor analyze. 

“Mr Bang, you are the only friend whom I could count 
on in these countries ; you know all about me and mine, and, 
I believe, would willingly do a kind action to my father’s 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 363 

“What are you at, Tom, my dear boy? come to the point, 
man.” 

“ I will. I am distressed beyond measure at having led 
you and your excellent friends. Wagtail and Gelid, into this 
danger; but I could not help it, and I have satisfied my con- 
science on that point; so I have only to entreat that you 
will stay below, and not unnecessarily expose yourselves. 
And if I should fall, — may I take this liberty, my dear sir,” 
and I involuntarily took his hand, — “if I should fall, and 
I doubt if I shall ever see the sun set again, as we are fear- 
fully overmatched ” 

Bang struck in — 

“ Why, if our friend be too big — why not be off then ? Pull 
foot, man, eh ? — Havana under your lee ? ” 

“A thousand reasons against it, my dear sir. I am a 
young man and a young officer, my character is to make in 
the service — No, no, it is impossible — an older and more 
tried hand might have bore up, but I must fight it out. If 
any stray shot carries me off, my dear sir, will you take ” — 
Mary, I would have said, but I could not pronounce her 
name for the soul of me — “will you take charge of her 
miniature, and say I died as I have” — a choking lump rose 
in my throat, and I could not proceed for a second ; “ and 
will you send my writing desk to my poor mother, there are 
letters in” — the lump grew bigger, the hot tears streamed 
from my eyes in torrents. I trembled like an aspen leaf, and 
grasping my excellent friend’s hand more firmly, I sunk 
down on my knees in a passion of tears, and wept like a 
woman, while I fervently prayed to that great God, in whose 
almighty hand I stood, that I might that day do my duty as 
an English seaman. Bang knelt by me. Presently the pas- 
sion was quelled. I rose, and so did he. 

“ Before you, my dear sir, I am not ashamed to have ” 

“ Don’t mention it — my good boy — don’t mention it ; 
neither of us, as the old general said, will fight a bit the 
worse.” 

I looked at him. “ Do you then mean to fight ? ” said I. 

“ To be sure I do — why not ? I have no wife,” — he did not 
say he had no children — “ Fight? To be sure I do.” 

“ Another gun, sir,” said Tailtackle, through the open sky- 
light. Now all was bustle, and we hastened on deck. Our 
antagonist was a large brig, three hundred tons at the least, 
a long low vessel, painted black, out and in, and her sides 
round as an apple, with immensely square yards. She was 
apparently full of men. The sun was getting low, and she 
was coming down fast on us, on the verge of the dark blue 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


364 

water of the sea breeze. I could make out ten ports and nine 
guns of a side. I inwardly prayed they might not be long 
ones, but I was not a little startled to see through the glass 
that there were crowds of naked negroes at quarters, and 
on the forecastle and poop. That she was a contraband 
Guineaman, I had already made up my mind to believe; 
and that she had some fifty hands of a crew, I also con- 
sidered likely; but that her captain should have resorted to 
such a perilous measure, perilous to themselves as well as 
to us, as arming the captive slaves, was quite unexpected, 
and not a little alarming, as it evinced his determination to 
make the most desperate resistance. 

Tailtackle was standing beside me at this time, with his 
jacket off, his cutlass girded on his thigh, and the belt 
drawn very tight. All the rest of the crew were armed in 
a similar fashion; the small-arm-men with muskets in their 
hands, and the rest at quarters at the guns; while the pikes 
were cast loose from the spars round which they had been 
stopped, with tubs of wadding, and boxes of grape, all ready 
ranged, and every thing clear for action. 

“ Mr Tailtackle,” said I, “ you are gunner here, and should 
be in the magazine. Cast off that cutlass; it is not your 
province to lead the boarders.” The poor fellow blushed, 
having, in the excitement of the moment, forgotten that he 
was any thing more than captain of the Firebrand’s main- 
top. 

“ Mr Timotheus,” said Bang, “ have you one of these bod- 
kins to spare ? ” 

Timothy laughed. “ Certainly, sir ; but you don’t mean 
to head the boarders, sir, do you ? ” 

“ Who knows, now since I have learned to walk on this 
dancing cork of a craft? ” rejoined Aaron, with a grim smile, 
while he pulled off his coat, braced on his cutlass, and tied 
a large red cotton shawl round his head. He then took off 
his neckerchief and fastened it round his waist, as tight as 
he could draw. 

“ Strange that all men in peril — on the uneasiness, like,” 
said he, “ should always gird themselves as tightly as they 
can.” 

The slaver was now within musket-shot, when he put his 
helm to port, with the view of passing under our stern. To 
prevent being raked, we had to luff up sharp in the wind, 
and fire a broadside. I noticed the while splinters glance 
from his black wales; and once more the same sharp yell 
rung in our ears, followed by the long melancholy howl, al- 
ready described. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


365 

u We have pinned some of the poor blacks again,” said 
Tailtackle, who still lingered on the deck; small space for 
remark, for the slaver again fired his broadside at us, with 
the same cool precision as before. 

“Down with the helm, and let her come round,” said I; 
“ that will do — master, run across his stern — out sweeps for- 
ward, and keep her there — get the other carronade over to 
leeward — that is it — now, blaze away while he is becalmed — 
fire, small-arm-men, and take good aim.” 

We were now right across his stern, with the spanker 
boom within ten yards of us; and although he worked his 
two stern chasers with great determination, and poured 
whole showers of musketry from his rigging, and poop, and 
cabin-windows, yet, from the cleverness with which our 
sweeps were pulled, and the accuracy with which we were 
kept in our position, right athwart his stern, our fire, both 
from the cannon and musketry, the former loaded with 
round and grape, was telling, I could see, with fearful 
effect. 

Crash — “ There, my lads, down goes his maintopmast — 
pepper him well, while they are blinded and confused among 
the wreck. Fire away — there goes the peak, shot away 
cleverly, close by the throat. Don’t cease firing, although his 
flag be down — it was none of his doing. There, my lads, 
there he has it again; you have shot away the weather fore- 
topsail sheet, and he cannot get from under you.” 

Two men at this moment lay out on his larboard fore- 
yard-arm, apparently with the intention of splicing the 
sheet, and getting the clew of the foretopsail once more 
down to the yard; if they had succeeded in this, the vessel 
would again have fetched way, and drawn out from under 
our fire. Mr Bang and Paul Gelid had all this time been 
firing with murderous precision, from where they had en- 
sconced themselves under the shelter of the larboard bul- 
wark, close to the tafferel, with their three black servants in 
the cabin, loading the six muskets, and little Wagtail, who 
was no great shot, sitting on the deck, handing them up and 
down. 

“ Now, Mr Bang,” cried I, “ for the love of Heaven,” — 
and may heaven forgive me for the ill-placed exclamation — 
“ mark these two men — down with them ! ” 

Bang turned towards- me with all the coolness in the world 
— “ What, those chaps on the end of the long stick ? ” 

“Yes — yes,” (I here spoke of the larboard foreyardarm,) 
“ yes, down with them.” 


366 TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

He lifted his piece as steadily as if he had really been 
duck-shooting. 

“I say, Gelid, my lad, take you the innermost.” 

“ Ah ! ” quoth Paul. They fired — and down dropped both 
men, and squattered for a moment in the water, like wounded 
waterfowl, and then sank for ever, leaving two small puddles 
of blood on the surface. 

“ Now, master,” shouted I, “ put the helm up and lay him 
alongside — there — stand by with the grapplings — one round 
the backstay — the other through the chainplate there — so, — 
you have it.” As we ranged under his counter — “ Main- 
chains are your chance, men — boarders, follow me.” And 
in the enthusiasm of the moment, I jumped into the slaver’s 
main channel, followed by twenty-eight men. We were in 
the act of getting over the netting when the enemy rallied 
and fired a volley of small arms, which sent four out of the 
twenty-eight to their account, and wounded three more. We 
gained the quarterdeck, where the Spanish captain, and 
about forty of his crew, shewed a determined front, cutlass 
and pistol in hand — we charged them — they stood their 
ground. Tailtackle (who, the moment he heard the boarders 
called, had jumped out of the magazine, and followed me) at 
a blow clove the Spanish captain to the chine ; the lieutenant, 
or second in command, was my bird, and I had disabled him 
by a sabre cut on the sword-arm, when he drew his pistol, 
and shot me through the left shoulder. I felt no pain, but 
a sharp pinch, and then a cold sensation, as if water had been 
poured down my neck. 

Jigmaree was close by me with a boarding-pike, and our 
fellows were fighting with all the gallantry inherent in 
British sailors. For a moment the battle was poised in equal 
scales. At length our antagonist gave way, when about 
fifteen of the slaves, naked barbarians, who had been ranged 
with muskets in their hands on the forecastle, suddenly 
jumped down into the waist with a yell, and came to the 
rescue of the Spanish part of the crew. 

I thought we were lost. Our people, all but Tailtackle, 
poor Handlead, and Jigmaree, held back. The Spaniards 
rallied, and fought with renewed courage, and it was now, 
not for glory, but for dear life, as all retreat was cut off by 
the parting of the grapplings and warps, that had lashed the 
schooner alongside of the slaver, for the Wave had by this 
time forged a-head, and lay across the brig’s bows, in place 
of being on our quarter, with her foremast jammed against 
the slaver’s bowsprit, whose spritsail-yard crossed our deck 
between the masts. We could not therefore retreat to our 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


367 

own vessel if we had wished it, as the Spaniards had posses- 
sion of the waist and forecastle; all at once, however, a dis- 
charge of round and grape crashed through the bridleport of 
the brig, and swept off three of the black auxiliaries before 
mentioned, and wounded as many more, and the next mo- 
ment an unexpected ally appeared on the field. When we 
boarded, the Wave had been left with only Peter Mangrove; 
the five dockyard negroes; Pearl, one of the Captain’s gigs, 
the handsome black already introduced on the scene; poor 
little Beefpoint, who, as already stated, was badly hurt; 
Aaron Bang, Paul Gelid, and Wagtail. But this Pearl 
without price, at the very moment of time when I thought 
the game was up, jumped on deck through the bowport, cut- 
lass in hand, followed by the five black carpenters and Peter 
Mangrove, after whom appeared no less a personage than 
Aaron Bang himself and the three blackamoor valets, armed 
with boarding-pikes. Bang flourished his cutlass for an 
instant. 

“ Now, Pearl, my darling, shout to them in Coromantee, 
— shout;” and forthwith the black quartermaster sung out, 
“ Coromantee Sheik Cocoloo, kockernony populorum fiz,” 
which, as I afterwards learned, being interpreted, is, “ Be- 
hold the Sultan Cocoloo, the great ostrich, with a feather in 
his tail like a palm branch ; fight for him, you sons of female 
dogs.” In an instant the black Spanish auxiliaries sided 
with Pearl, and Bang, and the negroes, and joined in charg- 
ing the white Spaniards, who were speedily driven down the 
main hatchway, leaving one-half of their number dead, or 
badly wounded on the blood-slippery deck. But they still 
made a desperate defence, by firing up the hatchway. I 
hailed them to surrender. 

“ Zounds,” cried Jigmaree, “there’s the clink of hammers; 
they are knocking off the fetters of the slaves.” 

“ If you let the blacks loose,” I sung out in Spanish, “ by 
the Heaven above us, I will blow you up, although I should 
go with you ! Hold your hands, Spaniards ! Mind what you 
do, madmen ! ” 

“ On with the hatches, men,” shouted Tailtackle. 

They had been thrown overboard, or put out of the way, 
they could no where be seen. The firing from below con- 
tinued. 

“ Cast loose that carronade there ; clap in a canister of 
grape — s0 — n ow run it forward, and fire down the hatch- 
way.” It was done, and taking effect amongst the pent-up 
slaves, such a yell arose— O God ! O God !— I never can for- 


368 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


get it. Still the maniacs continued firing up the hatch- 
way. 

“ Load and fire again.” My people were now furious, and 
fought more like incarnate fiends broke loose from hell than 
human beings. 

“ Run the gun up to the hatchway once more.” They ran 
the carronade so furiously forward, that the coaming, or 
ledge was split off, and down went the gun, carriage and all, 
with a crash into the hold. Presently smoke appeared rising 
up the fore-hatchway. 

“ They have set fire to the brig ; overboard ! — regain the 
schooner, or we shall all be blown into the air like peels of 
onions!” sung out little Jigmaree. 

But where was the Wave? She had broke away, and was 
now a cable’s length a-head, apparently fast leaving us, with 
Paul Gelid and Wagtail, and poor little Reefpoint, who, 
badly wounded as he was, had left his hammock, and come 
on deck in the emergency, making signs of their inability to 
cut away the halyards; and the tiller being shot away, the 
schooner had become utterly unmanageable. 

“ Up, and let fall the foresail, men — down with the fore- 
tack — cheerily now — get way on the brig, and overhaul the 
Wave promptly, or we are lost,” cried I. It was done with all 
the coolness of desperate men. I took the helm, and pres- 
ently we were once more alongside of our own vessel. Time 
we were so, for about one hundred and fifty of the slaves, 
whose shackles had been knocked off, now scrambled up the 
fore-hatchway, and we had only time to jump overboard, 
when they made a rush aft; and no doubt, exhausted as we 
were, they would have massacred us on the spot, frantic and 
furious as they had become from the murderous fire of grape 
that had been directed down the hatchway. 

But the fire was quicker than they. The smouldering 
smoke, that was rising like a pillar of cloud from the fore- 
hatchway, was now streaked with tongues of red flame, 
which, licking the masts and spars, ran up and caught the 
sails and rigging. In an instant, the fire spread to every part 
of the gear aloft, while the other element, the sea, was also 
striving for the mastery in the destruction of the doomed 
vessel; for our shot, or the fall of the carronade into the 
hold, had started some of the bottom planks, and she was 
fast settling down by the head. We could hear the water 
rushing in like a mill stream. The fire increased — her guns 
went off as they became heated — she gave a sudden heel — and 
while five hundred human beings, pent up in her noisome 
hold, split the heavens with their piercing death-yells, down 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


369 

she went with a heavy lurch, head foremost, right in the 
wake of the setting sun, whose level rays made the thick dun 
wreaths that burst from her as she disappeared, glow with 
the hue of the amethyst; and while the whirling clouds, 
gilded by his dying radiance, curled up into the blue sky, 
in rolling masses, growing thinner and thinner, until they 
vanished away, even like the wreck whereout they arose, — 
and the circling eddies, created by her sinking, no longer 
sparkled and flashed in the red light, — and the stilled waters 
where she had gone down, as if oil had been cast on them, 
were spread out like polished silver, shining like a mirror, 
while all around was dark blue ripple, — a puff of fat black 
smoke, denser than any we had yet seen, suddenly emerged, 
with a loud gurgling noise, from out the deep bosom of the 
calmed sea, and rose like a balloon, rolling slowly upwards, 
until it reached a little way over our mastheads, where it 
melted and spread out into a dark pall, that overhung the 
■ scene of death, as if the incense of such a horrible and pol- 
luted sacrifice could hot ascend into the pure heaven, but had 
been again crushed back upon our devoted heads, as a pal- 
pable manifestation of the wrath of Him who hath said, — 
“ Thou shalt not kill.” 

For a few moments all was silent as the grave, and I felt 
as if the air had become too thick for breathing, while I 
looked up like another Cain. 

Presently, about one hundred and fifty of the slaves, men , 
women , and children , who had been drawn down by the vor- 
tex, rose amidst numberless pieces of smoking wreck, to the 
surface of the sea; the strongest yelling like fiends in their 
despair, while the weaker, the women, and the helpless gasp- 
ing little ones, were choking, and gurgling, and sinking all 
around. Yea, the small thin expiring cry of the innocent 
sucking infant torn from its sinking mother’s breast, as she 
held it for a brief moment above the waters, which had 
already for ever closed over herself, was there. — But we could 
not perceive one single individual of her white crew; like 
desperate men, they had all gone down with the brig. We 
picked up about one half of the miserable Africans, and — 
my pen trembles as I write it — fell necessity compelled us 
to fire on the remainder, as it was utterly impossible for us 
to take them on board. Oh that I could erase such a scene for 
ever from my memory ! One incident I cannot help relating. 
We had saved a woman^ a handsome, clear-skinned girl, of 
about sixteen years of age. She was very faint when we got 
her in, and was lying with her head over a port-sill, when a 
strong athletic young negro swam to the part of the schooner 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


370 

where she was. She held down her hand to him; he was in 
the act of grasping it, when he was shot through the heart 
from above. She instantly jumped overboard, and, clasping 
him in her arms, they sank, and disappeared together. “ Oh, 
woman, whatever may be the colour of your skin, your heart 
is of one only ! ” said Aaron. 

Soon all was quiet; a wounded black here and there was 
shrieking in his great agony, and struggling for a moment 
before he sank into his watery grave for ever; a few pieces 
of wreck were floating and sparkling on the surface of the 
deep in the blood-red sunbeams, which streamed in a flood 
of glorious light on the bloody deck, shattered hull, and torn 
sails and rigging of the Wave, and on the dead bodies and 
mangled limbs of those who had fallen; while some heavy 
scattering drops of rain fell sparkling from a passing cloud, 
as if Nature had wept in pity over the dismal scene; or as if 
they had been blessed tears, shed by an angel, in his heaven- 
ward course, as he hovered for a moment, and looked down 
in pity on the fantastic tricks played by the worm of a day 
— by weak man, in his little moment of power and ferocity. 
I said something — ill and hastily. Aaron was close beside 
me, sitting on a carronade slide, while the surgeon was dress- 
ing a pike wound in his neck. He looked up solemnly in my 
face, and then pointed to the blessed luminary, that was 
now sinking in the sea, and blazing up into the resplendent 
heavens — “ Cringle, for shame — for shame — your impatience 
is blasphemous. Remember this morning — and thank Him ” 
— here he looked up and crossed himself — “ thank Him who, 
while he has called poor Mr Handlead, and so many brave 
fellows, to their last awful reckoning, has mercifully brought 
us to the end of this fearful day; — oh, thank Him, Tom, 
that you have seen the sun set once more!” 


CHAPTER XYI 

THE SECOND CRUISE OF THE WAVE 

“I long’d to see the Isles that gem 
Old Ocean’s purple diadem, 

I sought by turns, and saw them all.” 

Bride of Abydos. 

The puncture in Mr Bang’s neck from the boarding-pike 
was not very deep, still it was an ugly lacerated wound; and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


371 


if he had not, to use his own phrase, been somewhat bull- 
necked, there is no saying what the consequences might have 
been. 

“ Tom, my boy,” said he, after the doctor was done with 
him, “ I am nicely coopered now — nearly as good as new — 
a little stiffish or so — lucky to have such a comfortable coat- 
ing of muscle, otherwise the carotid would have been in 
danger. So come here, and take your turn, and I will hold 
the candle.” 

It was a dead calm, and as I had desired the cabin to be 
again used as a cockpit, it was at this time full of poor fel- 
lows, waiting to have their wounds dressed, whenever the 
surgeon could go below. The lantern was brought, and 
sitting down on a wadding tub, I stripped. The ball, which 
I knew had lodged in the fleshy part of my left shoulder, 
had first of all struck me right over the collar-bone, from 
which it had glanced, and then buried itself in the muscle 
of the arm, just below the skin, where it stood out, as if it 
had been a sloe both in shape and colour. The collar-bone 
was much shattered, and my chest was a good deal shaken, 
and greatly bruised; but I had perceived nothing of all this 
at the time I was shot; the sole perceptible sensation was 
the feeling of cold water running down, and the pinch in 
the shoulder, as already described. I was much surprised 
(every man who has been seriously hit being entitled to 
expatiate) with the extreme smallness of the puncture in the 
skin through which the ball had entered; you could not have 
forced a pea through it, and there was scarcely any flow of 
blood. 

“A very simple affair, this, sir,” said the surgeon, as he 
made a minute incision right over the ball, the instrument 
cutting into the cold dull lead with a cheep , and then pressing 
his fingers, one on each side of it, it jumped out nearly into 
Aaron’s mouth. 

“A pretty sugar-plum, Tom — if that collar-bone of yours 
had not been all the harder, you would have been embalmed 
in a gazette, to use your own favourite expression. But, my 
good boy, your bruise on the chest is serious; you must go 
to bed, and take care of yourself.” 

Alas! there was no bed for me to go to. The cabin was 
occupied by the wounded, where the surgeon was still at 
work. Out of our small crew, nine had been killed, and 
eleven wounded, counting passengers — twenty out of forty- 
two — a fearful proportion. 

The night had now fallen. 


372 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Pearl, send some of the people aft, and get a spare 
square-sail from the sailmaker, and ” 

“ Will the awning not do, sir? ” 

“ To be sure it will,” said I — it did not occur to me. “ Get 
the awning triced up to the stanchions, and tell my steward 
to get the beds on deck — a few flags to shut us in will make 
the thing complete.” 

It was done; and while the sharp cries of the wounded, 
who were immediately under the knife of the doctor, and 
the low moans of those whose wounds had been dressed, or 
were waiting their turn, reached our ears distinctly through 
the small skylight, our beds were arranged on deck, under 
the shelter of the awning, a curtain of flags veiling our 
quarters from the gaze of the crew. Paul Gelid and Pepper- 
pot occupied the starboard side of the little vessel; Aaron 
Bang and myself the larboard. By this time it was close on 
eight o’clock in the evening. I had merely looked in on our 
friends, ensconced as they were in their temporary hurricane 
house; for I had more work than I could accomplish on deck 
in repairing damages. Most of our standing, and great part 
of our running rigging, had been shot away, which the tired 
crew were busied in splicing and knotting the best way they 
could. Our mainmast was very badly wounded close to the 
deck. It was fished as scientifically as our circumstances 
admitted. The foremast had fortunately escaped — it was 
untouched; but there were no fewer than thirteen round 
shot through our hull, five of them between wind and water. 

When everything had been done which ingenuity could 
devise, or the most determined perseverance execute, I re- 
turned to our canvass-shed aft, and found Mr Wagtail sitting 
on the deck, arranging, with the help of my steward, the 
supper equipment to the best of his ability. Our meal, as 
may easily be imagined, was frugal in the extreme — salt 
beef, biscuit, some roasted yams, and cold grog — some of 
Aaron’s excellent rum. But I mark it down, that I question 
if any one of the four who partook of it, ever made so hearty 
a supper before or since. We worked away at the junk until 
we had polished the bone, clean as an elephant’s tusk, and 
the roasted yams disappeared in bushelfuls; while the old 
rum sank in the bottle, like mercury in the barometer indi- 
cating an approaching gale. 

“ I say, Tom,” quoth Aaron, “ how do you feel, my boy ? ” 

“ Why not quite so buoyant as I could wish. To me it has 
been a day of fearful responsibility.” 

“ And well it may,” said he. “As for myself, I go to rest 
with the tremendous consciousness that even I, who am not 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


373 


a professional butcher, have this blessed day shed more than 
one fellow-creature’s blood — a trembling consideration — and 
all for what, Tom? You met a big ship in the dark, and 
desired her to stop. She said she would not — You said ‘You 

shall.’ — She rejoined, ‘I’ll be d d if I do.’ And thereupon 

you set about compelling her; and certainly you have inter- 
rupted her course to some purpose, at the trivial cost of the 
lives of only five or six hundred human beings, whose hearts 
were beating cheerily in their bosoms within these last six 
hours, but whose bodies are now food for fishes.” 

I was stung. “ At your hands, my dear sir, I did not ex- 
pect this, and ” 

“ Hush,” said he, “ I don’t blame you — It is all right ; but 
why will not the government at home arrange by treaty that 
this nefarious trade should be entirely put down? Surely 
all our victories by sea and land might warrant our stipu- 
lating for so much, in place of hugger-muggering with doubt- 
ful ill-defined treaties, specifying that you John Crapeau, 
and you Jack Spaniard , shall steal men, and deal in human 
flesh, in such and such a degree of latitude only, while if you 
pick up one single slave a league to the northward or south- 
ward of the prescribed line of coast, then we shall blow you 
out of the water whenever we meet you. Why should poor 
devils, who live in one degree of latitude, be allowed to be 
kidnapped, whilst we make it felony* to steal their imme- 
diate neighbours ? ” Aaron waxed warm as he proceeded — 
“ Why will not Englishmen lend a hand to put down the 
slave-trade amongst our opponents in sugar growing, before 
they so recklessly endeavour to crush slavery in our own 
worn-out colonies, utterly regardless of our rights and lives? 
Mind, Tom, I don’t defend slavery, I sincerely wish we could 
do without it, but am T to be the only one to pay the piper 
in compassing its extinction? If, however, it really he that 
Upas-tree, under whose baleful shade every kindly feeling 
in the human bosom, whether of master or servant, withers 
and dies, I ask, who planted it? If it possess the magical, 
and incredible, and most pestilential quality, that the Eng- 
lish gentleman, who shall be virtuous and beneficent, and 
just in all his ways, before he leaves home, and after he re- 
turns home, shall, during his temporary sojourn within its 
influence, become a very Nero for cruelty, and have his warm 
heart of flesh smuggled out of his bosom, by some hocus po- 
cus, utterly unintelligible to any unprejudiced rational be- 
ing, or indurated into the flint of the nether mill-stone, or 
frozen into a lump of ice ” 


374 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“Lord!” ejaculated Wagtail, “only fancy a snowball in 
a man’s stomach, and in Jamaica, too! ” 

“ Hold your tongue, Waggy, my love,” continued Aaron, 
“ if all this were so, I would again ask, who planted it ? — 
say not that we did it — I am a planter, but I did not plant 
slavery. I found ft growing and flourishing, and fostered by 
the Government, and made my home amongst the branches 
like a respectable corbie craw, or a pelican in a wild duck’s 
nest, with all my pretty little tender black branchers hopping 
about me, along with numberless other unfortunates, and 
now find that the tree is being uprooted by the very hands 
that planted and nourished it, and seduced me to live in it, 
and all ” 

I laughed aloud — “ Come, come, my dear sir, you are a 
perfect Lord Castlereagh in the congruity of your figures. 
How the deuce can any living thing exist among the poi- 
sonous branches of the Upas-tree — or a wild-duck build ” 

“ Get along with your criticism, Tom — and don’t laugh, 
hang it, don’t laugh — but who told you that a corbie can- 
not ? ” 

“Why, there are no corbies in Java.” 

“ Pah — botheration — there are pelicans then ; but you 
know it is not an Upas- tree, you know it is all a chimera, 
and, like the air-drawn dagger of Macbeth, ‘ that there is no 
such thing.’ Now, that is a good burst, Gelid, my lad, an’t 
it? ” said Bang, as he drew a long breath, and again launched 
forth. 

“ Our Government shall quarrel about sixpence here or 
sixpence there of discriminative duty in a foreign port, while 
they have clapped a knife to our throats, and a flaming fagot 
to our houses, by absurd edicts and fanatical intermeddling 
with our own colonies, where the slave-trade has notoriously, 
and to their own conviction, entirely ceased; while, I say it 
again, they will not put out their little finger to prevent, nay, 
they calmly look on, and permit a traffic utterly repugnant 
to all the best feelings of our nature, and baneful to an incal- 
culable degree to our own West Indian possessions; provided, 
forsooth, the slaves be stolen within certain limits, which, as 
no one can prove, naturally leads to this infernal contraband, 
the suppression of which — Lord, what a thing to think of! 
— has nearly deprived the world of the invaluable services of 
me, Aaron Bang, Esquire, Member of Council of the 
Island of Jamaica, and Gustos Rotulorum Populorum Jig 
of the Parish of ” 

“Lord,” said Wagtail, “why, the yam is not half done.” 

“ But the rum is — ah ! ” drawled Gelid. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


375 


“ D — n the yam and the rum too,” rapped out Bang. 
“ Why, you belly-gods, you have interrupted such a torrent 
of eloquence ! ” 

I began to guess that our friends were waxing peppery. 
“ Why, gentlemen, I don’t know how you feel, but I am 
regularly done up — it is quite calm, and I hope we shall all 
sleep, so good-night.” 

We nestled in, and the sun had risen before I was called 
i next morning. I hope 

“ I rose a sadder and a wiser man, 

Upon that morrow’s morn.” 

“ On deck, there,” said I, while dressing. Mr Peter Swop, 
one of the Firebrand’s master-mates, and now, in conse- 
quence of poor Handlead’s death, acting-master of the Wave, 
popped in his head through the opening in the flags. “ How 
is the weather, Mr Swop ? ” 

“ Calm all night, sir ; not a breath stirring, sir.” 

“ Are the sails shifted ? ” said I, “ and the starboard main- 
shrouds replaced ? ” 

“ They are not yet, sir ; the sails are on deck, and the rig- 
ging is now stretching, and will be all ready to be got over 
the masthead by breakfast-time, sir.” 

“ How is her head ? ” 

“ Why,” rejoined Swop, “ it has been boxing all round the 
compass, sir, for these last twelve hours; at present it is 
north-east.” 

“Have we drifted much since last night, Mr Swop?” 

“ No, sir — much where we were. There are several pieces 
of wreck, and three dead bodies floating close to, sir.” 

By this time I was dressed, and had gone from under the 
awning on deck. The first thing I did was to glance my eye 
over the nettings, and there perceived on our quarter, three 
dead bodies, as Mr Swop had said, floating — one a white 
Spaniard, and the other the corpses of two unfortunate Afri- 
cans, who had perished miserably when the brig went down. 
The white man’s remains, swollen as they were, from the 
heat of the climate, and sudden putrefaction, consequent 
thereon, floated quietly within pistol-shot, motionless and 
still; but the bodies of the two negroes were nearly hidden 
by the clustering sea-birds which had perched on them. 
There were at least two dozen shipped on each carcass, busy 
with their beaks and claws, while, on the other hand, the 
water in the immediate neighbourhood seemed quite alive, 
from the rushing and walloping of numberless fishes, who 
were tearing the prey piecemeal. The view was any 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


376 

thing but pleasant, and I naturally turned my eyes forward 
to see what was going on in the bows of the schooner. I was 
startled from the number of black faces which I saw. 

“Why, Mr Tailtackle, how many of these poor creatures 
have we on board ? ” 

“ There are fifty-nine, sir, under hatches in the forehold,” 
said Timothy, “ and thirty-five on deck; but I hope we shan’t 
have them long, sir. It looks like a breeze to windward. We 
shall have it before long, sir.” 

At this moment Mr Bang came on deck. 

“ Lord, Tom, I thought it was a flea-bite last night, but, 
mercy, I am as stifi and sore as a gentleman need be. How 
do you feel ? I see you have one of your fins in a sling — eh ? ” 

“I am a little stifi, certainly; however, that will go off; 
but come forward here, my dear sir; come here, and look at 
this shot-hole — saw you ever any thing like that ? ” 

This was the smashing of one of our pumps from a round 
shot, the splinters from which were stuck into the bottom of 
the launch, which overhung it, forming really a figure very 
like the letter A. 

“ Don’t take it to myself, Tom — no, not at all.” 

At this moment the black savages on the forecastle dis- 
covered our friend, and shouts of “ Sheik Cocoloo ” rent the 
skies. Mr Bang, for a moment, appeared startled; so far as 
I could Judge, he had forgotten that part of his exploit, and 
did not know what to make of it, until at last the actual 
meaning seemed to flash on him, when, with a shout of 
laughter, he bolted in through the openings of the flags to 
his former quarters below the awning. I descended to the 
cabin, breakfast having been announced, and sat down to 
our meal, confronted by Paul Gelid and Pepperpot Wagtail. 
Presently we heard Aaron sing out, the small scuttle being 
right overhead, “ Pegtop, come here, Pegtop, I say, help me 
on with my neckcloth — so — that will do; now I shall go on 
deck. Why, Pearl, my boy, what do you want,” and before 
Pearl could get a word in, Aaron continued, “ I say, Pearl, 
go to the other end of the ship, and tell your Coroman tee 
friends that is all a humbug — that I am not the Sultan 
Cocoloo; farthermore, that I have not a feather in my tail 
like a palm branch, of the truth of which I offer to give them 
ocular proof.” 

Pearl made his salaam. “ Oh, sir, I fear that we must not 
say too much on that subject ; we have not irons for one half 
of them savage negirs ; ” the fellow was as black as a coal 
himself; “and were they to be undeceived, why, reduced as 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 3 77 

our crew is, they might at any time rise on, and massacre the 
whole watch.” 

“ The devil ! ” we could hear friend Aaron say ; “ oh, then, 
go forward, and assure them that I am a bigger ostrich than 
ever, and I shall astonish them presently, take my word for 
it. Pegtop, come here, you scoundrel,” he continued ; “ I say, 
Pegtop, get me out my uniform =coat,” — our friend was a 
captain of Jamaica militia — “ so — and my sword — that will 
do — and here, pull off my trowsers, it will be more classical 
to perambulate in my shirt, in case it really be necessary 
to persuade them that the palm branch was all a figure of 
speech. Now, my -hat — there — walk before me, and fan me 
with the top of that herring barrel.” 

This was a lid of one of the wadding-tubs, which, to come 
up to Jigmaree’s notions of neatness, had been fitted with 
covers, and forth stumped Bang, preceded by Pegtop doing 
the honours. But the instant he appeared from beneath the 
flags, the same wild shout arose from the captive slaves for- 
ward, and such of them as were not fettered, immediately 
began to bundle and tumble around our friend, rubbing their 
flat noses and woolly heads all over him, and taking hold of 
the hem of his garment, whereby his personal decency was 
so seriously periled, that, after an unavailing attempt to 
shake them off, he fairly bolted, and ran for shelter once 
more under the awning, amidst the suppressed mirth of the 
whole crew, Aaron himself laughing louder than any of them 
all the while. “ I say, Tom, and fellow-sufferers,” quoth he 
after he had run to the earth under the awning, and looking 
down the scuttle into the cabin where we were at breakfast, 
“ how am I to get into the cabin ? If I go out on the quar- 
terdeck but one arm’s length, in order to reach the com- 
panion, these barbarians will be at me again. Ah, I see ” 

Whereupon, without more ado, he stuck his legs down 
through the small hatch right over the breakfast table, with 
the intention of descending, and the first thing he accom- 
plished, was to pop his foot into a large dish of scalding 
hominy, or hasty-pudding, made of Indian corn meal, with 
which Wagtail was in the habit of commencing his stowage 
at breakfast. But this proving too hot for comfort, he in- 
stantly drew it out, and in his attempt to reascend, he stuck 
his bespattered toe into Paul Gelid’s mouth. “Oh ! 0I1 ! ” 
exclaimed Paul, while little Wagtail lay back laughing like 
to die; but the next instant Bang gave another struggle, or 
wallop, like a pelloch in shoal water, whereby Pepperpot 
borrowed a good kick on the side of the head, and down 
came the Great Ostrich , Aaron Bang, but without any 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


378 

feather in his tail, as I can vouch, slap upon the table, 
smashing cups and saucers, and hominy, and devil knows 
what all, to pieces, as he floundered on the board. This Was 
so absurd, that we were all obliged to give uncontrolled 
course to our mirth for a minute or two, when, making the 
best of the wreck, we contrived to breakfast in tolerable 
comfort. 

Soon after the meal was finished, a light air enabled us 
once more to lie our course, and we gradually crept , to the 
northward, until twelve o’clock in the forenoon, after which 
time it fell calm again. I went down to the cabin; Bang 
had been overhauling my small library, when a shelf gave 
way, (the whole affair having been injured by a round shot 
in the action, which had torn right through the cabin,) so 
down came several scrolls, rolled up, and covered with brown 
paper. 

“ What are all these ? ” I could hear our friend say. 

“ They are my logs,” said I. 

“Your what?” 

“ My private journals.” 

“ Oh, I see,” said Aaron. “ I will have a turn at them, 
with your permission. But what is this so carefuly bound 
with red tape, and sealed, and marked — let me see, i Thomas 
Cringle, his Log-book.’ ” 

He looked at me. — “Why, my dear sir, to say the truth, 
this is my first attempt; full of trash, believe me; — what else 
could you expect from so mere a lad as I was when I 
wrote it ? ” 

“‘ The child is father to the man,’ Tom, myT>oy; so, may 
I peruse it? may I read it for the edification of my learned 
allies, — Pepperpot Wagtail, and Paul Gelid, esquires?” 

“ Certainly,” I replied, “ no objection in the world, but you 
will laugh at me, I know; still, do as you please, only, had 
you not better have your wound dressed first ? ” 

“ My wound ! Poo, poo ! just enough to swear by — a flea- 
bite — never mind it; so here goes ” — and he read aloud what 
is detailed in the “ Launching of the Log,” making his re- 
marks with so much naivete , that I daresay the reader will 
be glad to hear a few of them. His anxiety, for instance, 
when he read of the young aide-de-camp being shot and 
dragged by the stirrup,* to know “what became of the empty 
horse,” was very entertaining; and when he had read the 
description of Davoust’s face and person, where I describe 
his nose \ “ as neither fine nor dumpy — a fair enough pro- 
* Page 32. + Page 19. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 379 

boscis as noses go,” — he laid down the Log with the most 
laughable seriousness. 

“ Now,” quoth he, “ very inexplicit all this, Tom. Why, 
I am most curious in noses. I judge of character altogether 
from the nose. I never lose sight of a man’s snout, albeit I 
never saw the tip of my own. You may rely on it, that it is 
all a mistake to consider the regular Roman nose, with a 
curve like a shoemaker’s paring-knife, or the straight Gre- 
cian, with a thin transparent ridge, that you can see through 
or the Deutsch meerschaum, or the Saxon pump-handle, or 
the Scotch mull, or any other nose, that can be taken hold of, 
as the standard gnomon. No, no; I never saw a man 
with a large nose who was not a blockhead — eh! Gelid, my 
love? But allons.” And where, having introduced the Ger- 
man refugees to Captain Deadeye, I go on to say that I 
thereupon dived into the midshipman’s berth for a morsel 
of comfort, and was soon “ far into the secrets of a pork 
pie,”* — he lay back, and exclaimed, with a long drawling em- 
phasis — “ A pork pie ! ” 

“ A pork pie !” said Paul Gelid. 

“ Why, do you know,” said Mr Wagtail — “ I — why, I never 
in all my life saw a pork pie.” 

“ My dear Pepperpot,” chimed in Gelid, “we both forget. 
Don’t you remember the day we dined with the Admiral at 
the Pen, in July last? ” 

“No,” said Wagtail, “I totally forget it.” Bang, I saw, 
was all this while chuckling to himself — “ I absolutely forget 
it altogether.” 

“ Bless me,” said Gelid, “ don’t you remember the beauti- 
ful calipee ver we had that day ? ” 

“ Really I do not,” said Pepperpot, “ I have had so many 
good feeds there.” 

“ Why,” continued Gelid, “Lord love you, Wagtail, not 
remember that calipeever, so crisp in the broiling ? ” 

“ No,” said Wagtail, “ really I do not.” 

“ Lord, man, it had a pudding in its belly” 

“ Oh, now I remember,” said Wagtail. 

Bang laughed outright, and I could not help making, a hole 
in my manners also, even prepared as I was for my jest by 
my sable crony Pegtop. — To proceed. 

Aaron looked at me with one of his quizzical grins; 
“ Cringle, my darling, do you keep these Logs still ? ” 

“ I do, my dear sir, invariably.” 

“What,” struck in little Wagtail, “the deuce!— for in- 
stance, shall I, and Paul, and Aaron there, all be embalmed 
* Page 33. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


380 

or preserved ” (“ Say pickled,” quoth the latter) “ in these 
said Logs of yours ? ” This was too absurd, and I could not 
answer my allies for laughing. As for Gelid, he had been 
swaying himself backwards and forwards, half asleep, on the 
hind legs of his chair all this while, puffing away at a cigar. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, half asleep, and but partly overhearing 
what was going on; “ah, Tom, my dear, you don’t say that 
we shall all be handed down to our poster” — a long yawn — 
“ to our poster” — another yawn — when Bang, watching his 
opportunity as he sat opposite, gently touched one of the fore 
legs of the balanced chair with his toe, while he finished 
Gelid’s sentence by interjecting, “ iors,” as the conch fell back 
and floundered over on his stern; his tormentor drawling out 
in wicked mimicry — 

“Yes, dear Gelid, so sure as you have been landed down 
on your posteriors now — ah — you shall be handed down 
to your posterity hereafter, by that pestilent little scamp 
Cringle. Ah, Tom, 1 know you. — Paul, Paul, it will be paulo 
post futurum with you, my lad.” 

Here we were interrupted by my steward’s entering with 
his tallow face. “ Dinner on the table, sir.” We adjourned 
accordingly. 

After dinner, we carried on very much as usual, although 
the events of the previous day had their natural effect; there 
was little mirth, and no loud laughter. Once more we all 
turned in, the calm still continuing, and next morning after 
breakfast, friend Aaron took to the Log again. 

But the most amusing exhibition took place when he came 
to the description of the row in the dark stair at the agent’s 
house, where the negroes fight for the scraps, and capsize 
Treenail, myself, and the brown lady, down the steps.”* 

“ Why, I say, Tom,” again quoth Aaron, “ I never knew 
before, that you were in Jamaica at the period you here 
write of.” 

“ Why, my dear sir, I scarcely can say that I was there, 
my visit was so hurried.” 

“Hurried!” rejoined he, “hurried — by no means; were 
you not in the island for four or five hours ? Ah ! long enough 
to have authorized your writing an anti-slavery pamphlet 
of one hundred and fifty pages.” 

I smiled. 

“ Oh, you may laugh, my boy, but it is true — what a sub- 
ject for an anti-slavery lecture! — listen, and be instructed.” 
Here our friend shook himself as a bruiser does to ascertain 
that all is right before he throws up his guard, and for the 
* Page 49. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 381 

first five minutes he only jerked his right shoulder this way, 
and his left shoulder t’other way, while his fins walloped down 
against his sides like empty sleeves ; at length, as he warmed, 
he stretched forth his arms like Saint Paul in the Cartoon — 
and although he now and then could not help sticking his 
tongue in his cheek, still the exhibition was so true, and so 
exquisitely comical, that I never shall forget it. — “ The whole 
white inhabitants of Kingston are luxurious monsters, liv- 
ing in more than Eastern splendour; and their universal 
practice, during their magnificent repasts, is to entertain 
themselves, by compelling their black servants to belabour 
each other across the pate with silver ladles, and to stick 
drumsticks of turkeys down each other’s throats. Merciful 
heaven! — only picture the miserable slaves, each with the 
spaul of a turkey sticking in his gob ! dwell upon that, my 
dearly-beloved hearers, dwell upon that — and then let those 
who have the atrocious hardihood to do so, speak of the kind- 
liness of the planters’ hearts. Kindliness! kindliness! to 
cram the leg of a turkey down a man’s throat, while his yoke- 
fellow in bondage is fracturing his tender woolly skull — for 
all negroes, as is well known, have craniums, much thinner, 
and more fragile than an egg-shell — with so tremendous a 
weapon as a silver ladle ! Ay, a silver ladle ! ! ! Some people 
make light of a silver ladle as an instrument of punishment 
— it is spoken of as a very slight affair, and that the blows 
inflicted by it are mere child’s play. If any of you, my be- 
loved hearers, labour under this delusion, and will allow me, 
for your edification, to hammer you about the chops with one 
of the aforesaid silver soup-ladles of those yellow tyrants 
for one little half hour, I pledge myself the delusion shall be 
dispelled once and forever. Well then, after this fearful 
scene has continued for I dare not say how long, the black 
butler — ay, the black butler, a slave himself — oh, my friends, 
even the black butlers are slaves — the very men who min- 
ister the wine in health, which maketh their hearts glad, and 
the castor oil in sickness, which maketh them any thing but 
of a cheerful countenance — this very black butler is desired, 
on peril of having a drumstick stuck into his own gizzard 
also, and his skull fractured by the aforesaid iron ladles — 
red hot, it may be— ay, and who shall say they are not full 
of molten lead f yes, molten lead— does not our reverend 
brother Lachrimse Roarem say that the ladles might have 
been full of molten lead, and what evidence have we on the 
other side, that they were not full of molten lead? Why, 
none at all, none — nothing but the oaths of all the naval 
and military officers who have ever served in these pestilent 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


382 

settlements; and of all the planters and merchants in the 
West Indies, the interested planters — those planters who 
suborn all the navy and army to a man — those planters 
whose molasses is but another name for human blood. (Here 
a large puff and blow, and a swabification of the white hand- 
kerchief, while the congregation blow a flourish of trum- 
pets.) My friends — (another puff) — my friends — we all 
know, my friends, that bullocks’ blood is largely used in the 
sugar refineries in England ; but, alas ! there is no bullocks’ 
blood used in the refineries in the West Indies. This I will 
prove to you on the oath of six dissenting clergymen. No. 
What, then, is the inference ? Oh, is it not palpable ? Ho you 
not every day, as jurors, hang men on circumstantial evi- 
dence ? Are not many of yourselves hanged and transported 
every year, on the simple fact being proved, of your being 
found stooping down in pity over some poor fellow with a 
broken head, with your hands in his breeches pockets in or- 
der to help him up? And can you fail to draw the proper 
inference in the present case? Oh no! no! my friends, it is 
the blood of the negroes that is used in these refining pande- 
moniums — of the poor negroes, who are worth one hundred 
pounds apiece to their masters, and on whose health and 
capacity for work these same planters absolutely and en- 
tirely depend.” 

Here our friend gathered all his energies, and began to 
roar like a perfect bull of Bashan, and to swing his arms 
about like the sails of a windmill, and to stamp and jump, 
and lollop about with his body as he went on. 

“ Well, this butler, this poor black butler — this poor black 
slave butler — this poor black Christian slave butler — for he 
may have been a Christian, and most likely was a Christian, 
and, indeed, must have been a Christian — is enforced, after 
all the cruelties already narrated, on pain of being choked 
with the leg of a turkey himself, and having molten lead 
poured down his own throat, to do what? — who would not 
weep? — to — to — to chuck each of his fellow-servants, poor, 
miserable creatures! each with a bone in his throat, and 
molten lead in his belly, and a fractured skull — to chuck 
them, neck and croup, one after another, down a dark stair- 
case, a pitch-dark staircase, amidst a chaos of plates and 
dishes, and the hardest and most expensive china, and the 
finest cut crystal — that the wounds inflicted may be the 
keener — and silver spoons, and knives, and forks — yea, my 
Christian brethren, carving knives and pitchforks — right 
down on the top of their brown mistresses, w T ho are thereby 
invariably bruised like the clown in the pantomime — at least 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


383 

as I am told he is, for I never go to such profane places — 
oh, no! — bruised as hat as pancakes, and generally murdered 
outright on the spot. Last of all, the landlord gets up, and 
kicks that miserable butler himself down after his mates, 
into the very heart of the living mass ; and this not once and 
away, but every day in the week, Sundays not excepted. Oh, 
my dear, dear hearers, can you — can you, with your fleshly 
hearts thumping and bumping against your small ribs, forget 
the black butler, and the mulatto concubines, and the pitch- 
forks, and the iron ladles full of molten lead? My feelings 
overpower me; I must conclude. Go in peace, and ponder 
these things in your hearts, and pay your sixpences at the 
doors — Exeunt omnes, piping their eyes, and blowing their 
noses.” 

Our shouts of laughter interrupted our friend, who never 
moved a muscle. 

Again, where old Crowfoot asks his steward — “ How does 
the privateer lay f "* 

“ There again, now,” said Aaron, with an irritable girn , — 
“ why, Tom, your style is most pestilent — you lay here, and 
you lay there — are you sure that you are not a hen, Tom ? ” 

One more touch at Massa Aaron, and I have done. After 
coming to the description of the horrible carnage that the 
fire from the transport caused on the privateer’s deck before 
she sheered off, f I remarked — “ I never recall that early and 
dismal scene to my recollection, — the awful havoc created on 
the schooner’s deck by our fire — the struggling, and crawling, 
and wriggling of the dark mass of wounded men, as they 
endeavoured, fruitlessly, to shelter themselves from our guns, 
even behind the dead bodies of their slain shipmates, — with- 
out conjuring up a very fearful and harrowing image.” 

“ Were you ever at Biggleswade, my dear sir ? ” 

“ To be sure I was,” said Mr Bang. 

“ Then did you ever see an eel-pot with the water drawn 
off, when the snake-like fish were twining, and twisting, and 
crawling, like Brobdingnag maggots, in living knots, a hor- 
rible and disgusting mass of living abomination, amidst the 
filthy slime at the bottom ? ” 

“Ach — have done, Tom — hang your similes. Can’t you 
cut your coat by me, man? Only observe the delicacy of 
mine.” 

“ The corbie craw, for instance,” said I, laughing. 

" Ever at Biggleswade ! ” struck in Paul Gelid. “ Ever at 
Biggleswade! Lord love you, Cringle, we have all been at 
Biggleswade. Don’t you know,” (how he conceived I should 
* Page 63. + Page 65. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


3 % 

have known, I am sure I never could tell,) “don’t you know 
that Wagtail and I once made a voyage to England, ay, in 
the hurricane months, too — ah — for the express purpose of 
eating eels there; and Lord, Tom, my dear fellow,” (here he 
sunk his voice into a most dolorous key,) “ let me tell you 
that we were caught in a hurricane in the Gulf, and very 
nearly lost, when, instead of eating eels, sharks would have 
eaten us — ah — and at length driven into Havana — ah. 
And when we did get home” — (here I thought my excellent 
friend would have cried outright) — “ Lord, sir ! we found 
that the fall was not the season to eat eels in after all — ah — 
that is, in perfection. But we found out from Whiffle, whom 
we met in town, and who had learned it from the guard of the 
North mail, that one of the last season’s pots was still on 
hand at Biggleswade; so down we trundled in the mail that 
very evening.” 

“ And don’t- you remember the awful cold I caught that 
night, being obliged to go outside? ” quoth Waggy. 

“ Ah, and so you did, my dear fellow,” continued his ally. 

“ But gracious — on alighting, we found that the agent of 
a confounded gormandizing Lord Mayor had that very even- 
ing b<5hed the entire contents of the only remaining pot, for 
a cursed livery dinner — ah. Eels, indeed! we got none but 
those of the new catch, full of mud, and tasting of mud and 
red worms. Wagtail was really very ill in consequence — ah.” 

Pepperpot had all this while listened with mute attention, 
as if the narrative had been most moving, and I question not 
he thought so; but Bang — oh, the rogue — looked also very 
grave and sympathizing, but there was a laughing devil in 
his eye, that shewed he was inwardly enjoying the beautiful 
rise of his friends. 

We were here interrupted by a hail from the look-out man 
at the masthead, — “ Land right a-head.” 

“ What does it look like ? ” said I. 

“ It makes in low hummocks, sir. Now I see houses on the 
highest one.” 

“ Hurrah, Nassau, New Providence, ho! ” 

Shortly after we made the land about Nassau, the breeze 
died away, and it fell nearly calm. 

“ I say, Thomas,” quoth Aaron, “ for this night at least we 
must still be your guests, and lumber you on board of your 
seventy-four. No chance, so far as I see, of getting into port 
to-night ; at least if we do, it will be too late to go on shore.” 

He said truly, and we therefore made up our minds to sit 
down once more to our rough and round dinner, in the small, 
hot, choky cabin of the Wave. As it happened, we were all 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


335 

in high glee. I flattered myself that my conduct in the late 
affair would hoist me up a step or two on the roaster for pro- 
motion, and my excellent friends were delighted at the idea 
of getting on shore. 

After the cloth had been drawn, Mr Bang opened his fire. 

“ Tom, my boy, I respect your service, but I have no great 
ambition to belong to it. I am sure no bribe that I am aware 
of could ever tempt me to make * my home upon the deep ; ’ 
and I really am not sure that it is a very gentlemanly calling 
after all. — Nay, don’t look glum; what I meant was, the 
egregious weariness of spirit you must all undergo from 
consorting with the same men day after day, hearing the 
same jokes repeated for the hundredth time, and, whichever 
way you turn, seeing the same faces morning, noon, and 
night, and listening to the same voices. Oh! I should die 
in a year’s time were I to become a sailor.” 

“ But,” rejoined I, “you have your land bores in the same 
way that we have our sea bores; and we have this advantage 
over you, that if the devil should stand at the door, we can 
always escape from them sooner or later, and can buoy up 
our souls with the certainty that we can so escape from them 
at the end of the cruise at the farthest; whereas if you hap- 
pen to have taken root amidst a colony of bores on shore, 
why, you never can escape, unless you sacrifice all your tem- 
poralities for that purpose ; ergo, my dear sir, our life has its 
advantages, and yours has its disadvantages.” 

“ Too true — too true,” rejoined Mr Bang. “ In fact, judg- 
ing from my own small experience, borism is fast attaining 
a head it never reached before. Speechifying is the crying 
and prominent vice of the age. Why will the ganders not 
recollect that eloquence is the gift of heaven, Thomas? A 
man may improve it, unquestionably, but the Promethean 
fire, the electrical spark, must be from on high. No mental 
perseverance or education could ever have made a Demos- 
thenes, or a Cieero, in the ages long past; nor an Edmund 
Burke ” 

“ Nor an Aaron Bang in times present,” said I. 

“ Hide my roseate blushes, Thomas,” quoth Aaron, as he 
continued — “ Would that men would speak according to 
their gifts, study Shakespeare and Don Quixote, and learn 
of me; and that the real blockhead would content himself 
with speaking when he is spoken to, drinking when he is 
drucken to, and ganging to the kirk when the bell rings. You 
never can go into a party now-a-days, that you don’t meet 
with some shallow, prosing, pestilent ass of a fellow, who 
thinks that empty sound is conversation; and not unfre- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


386 

quently there is a spice of malignity in the blockhead’s com- 
position; but a creature of this calibre you can wither, for 
it is not worth crushing, by withholding the sunshine of your 
countenance from it, or by leaving it to drivel on, until the 
utter contempt of the whole company claps — to change the 
figure — a wet night-cap as an extinguisher on it, and its 
small stinking flame flickers and goes out of itself. Then 
there is your sentimental water-fly, who blaws in the lugs of 
) the women, and clips the King’s English, and your high- 
\ flying dominie body, who whumles them outright. I speak 
in a figure. But all these are as dust in the balance to the 
wearisome man of ponderous acquirements, the solemn block- 
head who usurps the pas, and, if he happen to be rich, fancies 
himself entitled to prose and palaver away, as if he were Sir 
Oracle, or as if the pence in his purse could ever fructify 
the cauld parritch in his pate into pregnant brain. There is 
a plateful of P’s for you, at any rate, Tom. Beautiful exem- 
plification o* the art alliterative — an’t it ? 

* Oh that Heaven the gift wad gie us, 

To see ourselves as others see us I ’ 

My dear boy, speechifying has extinguished conversation. 
Public meetings, God knows, are rife enough, and why will 
the numbskulls not confine their infernal dulness to them? 
why not be satisfied with splitting the ears of the ground- 
lings there? why will they not consider that convivial con- 
versation should be lively as the sparkle of musketry, brill- 
iant, sharp, and sprightly, and not like the thundering of 
heavy cannon, or heavier bombs. — But no — you shall ask 
one of the Drawleys across the table to take wine. ‘ Ah,’ 
says he — and how he makes out the concatenation, God only 
knows — 1 this puts me in mind, Mr Thingumbob, of what 
happened when I was chairman of the county club, on such 
a day. Alarming times these were, and deucedly nervous I 
was when I got up to return thanks. My friends, said I, this 

unexpected and most unlooked-for honour — this ’ Here 

blowing all your breeding to the winds, you fire a question 
across his bows into the fat pleasant fellow, who speaks for 
society beyond him, and expect to find that the dull sailer has 
hauled his wind, or dropped astern — (do you twig how nau- 
tical I have become in my lingo under Tailtackle’s tuition, 
Tom?) — but, alas! no sooner has the sparkle of our fat 
friend’s wit lit up the whole worshipful society, than at the 
first lull, down comes Drawley again upon you, like a heavy- 
sterned Dutch dogger, right before the wind — ■ As I was 
saying — this unexpected and most unlooked-for honour’ — 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


387 

and there you are pinned to the stake, and compelled to stand 
the fire of all his blunt bird-bolts for half an hour on end. 
At length his mud has all dribbled from him, and you hug 
yourself — 4 Ah, — come, here is a talking man opening his fire, 
so we shall have some conversation at last/ But alas and 
alack a day! Prosey the second chimes in, and works away, 
and hems and haws, and hawks up some old scraps of school- 
boy Latin and Greek, which are all Hebrew to you, honest 
man, until at length he finishes off by some solemn twaddle 
about fossil turnips and vitrified brickbats; and thus con- 
cludes Fozy No. 2. Oh, shade of Edie Ochiltree! that we 
should stand in the taunt of such unmerciful spendthrifts 
of our time on earth. Besides, the devil of it is, that what- 
ever may be said of the flippant palaverers , the heavy bores 
are generally most excellent and amiable men, so that one 
can’t abuse the sumphs with any thing like a quiet con- 
science.” 

“ Come,” said I, “my dear sir, you are growing satirical.” 

“ Quarter less three,” sung out the leadsman in the chains. 

We were now running in past the end of Hog Island to 
the port of Nassau, where the lights were sparkling brightly. 
We anchored, but it was too late to go on shore that evening, 
so, after a parting glass of swizzle, we all turned in for the 
night. 

To be near the wharf, for the convenience of refitting, I 
had run the schooner close in, being aware of the complete 
security of the harbour, so that in the night T could feel the 
little vessel gently take the ground. This awoke me and sev- 
eral of the crew, for accustomed as sailors are to the smooth 
bounding motion of a buoyant vessel, rising and falling on 
the heaving bosom of the ocean, the least touch on the solid 
ground, or against any hard floating substance, thrills to 
their hearts with electrical quickness. Through the thin 
bulkhead I could hear the officers speaking to each other. 

“We are touching the ground,” said one. 

“And if we be, there is no sea here — all smooth — land- 
locked entirely,” quoth another. 

So all hands of us, except the watch on deck, snoozed away 
once more into the land of deep forgetfulness. We had all 
for some days previously been over-worked, and over-fa- 
tigued; indeed, ever since the action had caused the duty of 
the little vessel to devolve on one half of her original crew, 
those who had escaped had been subjected to great privations, 
and were nearly worn out. 

It might have been four bells in the middle watch when I 
was awakened by the discontinuance of Mr Swop’s heavy 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


388 

step over head; but judging that the poor fellow might have 
toppled over into a slight temporary snooze, I thought little 
of it, persuaded as I was that the vessel was lying in the most 
perfect safety. In this belief I was falling over once more, 
when I heard a short startled grunt from one of the men in 
the steerage, — then a sudden sharp exclamation from another 
— a louder ejaculation of surprise from a third — and pres- 
ently Mr Wagtail, who was sleeping on a mattrass, spread 
on the locker below me, gave a sputtering cough. A heavy 
splash followed, and, simultaneously, several of the men for- 
ward shouted out “ Ship full of water — water up to our ham- 
mocks; ” while Waggy, who had rolled off his narrow couch, 
sang out at the top of his pipe, “ I am drowned. Bang. Tom 
Cringle, my dear, — Gelid, I am drowned — we are all drowned 
— the ship is at the bottom of the sea, and we shall have eels 
enough here, if we had none at Biggleswade. Oh! murder! 
murder ! ” 

“ Sound the well/’ I could hear Tailtackle, who had run on 
deck, sing out. 

“No use in that,” I called out, as I splashed out of my 
warm cot, up to my knees in water. “ Bring a light, Mr Tail- 
tackle ; a bottom plank must have started, or a butt, or a hid- 
den-end. The schooner is full of water, beyond doubt, and as 
the tide is still making, stand by to hoist out the boats, and 
get the wounded into them. But don’t be alarmed, men; the 
schooner is on the ground, and it is near high-water. So be 
cool and quiet. Don’t bother now — don’t ” — 

By the time I had finished my extempore speech I was on 
deck, where I soon found that, in very truth, there was 
no use in sounding the well, or manning the pumps, either, as 
some wounded plank had been crushed out bodily by the 
pressure of the vessel when she took the ground; and there 
she lay — the tidy little Wave — regularly bilged, with the tide 
flowing into her. 

Every one of the crew was now on the alert. Bedding and 
bags and some provisions were placed in the boats of the 
schooner; and several craft from the shore, hearing the 
alarm, were now alongside ; so danger there was none, except 
that of catching cold, and I therefore bethought me of look- 
ing in on my guests in the cabin. I descended and waded 
into our late dormitory with a candle in my hand, and the 
water nearly up to my waist. I there found my steward, 
also with a light, splashing about in the water, catching a 
stray hat here, and fishing up a spare coat there, and anchor- 
ing a chair, with a piece of spunyarn, to the pillar of the 
small side-berth on the starboard side, while our friend 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


389 

Massa Aaron was coolly lying in his cot on the larboard, the 
bottom of which was by this time within an inch of the sur- 
face of the water, and bestirring himself in an attempt to 
get his trowsers on, which by some lucky chance he had 
stowed away under his pillow overnight, and there he was 
sticking up first one peg and then another, until by sidling 
and shifting in his narrow lair, he contrived to rig himself 
in his nether garments. “ But, steward, my good man,” he 
was saying when I entered, “ where is my coat, eh ? ” The 
man groped for a moment down in the water, which his nose 
dipped into, with his shirt-sleeves tucked up to his arm-pits, 
and then held up some dark object, that, to me at least, 
looked like a piece of black cloth hooked out of a dyer’s vat. 
Alas! this was Massa Aaron’s coat; and while the hats were 
bobbing at each other in the other corner like seventy-fours, 
with a squadron of shoes in their wakes, and Wagtail was 
sitting in the side-berth with his wet night-gown drawn 
about him, his muscular development in high relief through 
the clinging drapery, and bemoaning his fate in the most 
pathetic manner that can be conceived, our ally Aaron ex- 
claimed, “ I say, Tom, how do you like the cut of my Sunday 
coat, eh ? ” while our friend Paul Gelid, who it seems had 
slept through the whole row, was at length startled out of 
his sleep, and sticking one of his long shanks over the side of 
his cot in act to descend, immersed it in the cold salt brine. 

“Lord! Wagtail,” he exclaimed, “ my dear fellow, the 
cabin is full of water — we are sinking — ah! — Deucedly an- 
noying to be drowned in this hole, amidst dirty water, like a 
tubful of ill-washed potatoes — ah.” 

“ Tom — Tom Cringle,” shouted Mr Bang at this juncture, 
while he looked over the edge of his cot on the stramash be- 
low, “ saw ever any man the like of that ? _ Why, see there— 
there, just under your candle, Tom — a bird’s nest floating 
about with a mavis in it, as I am a gentleman.” 

“ D_n your bird’s nest and mavis too, whatever that may 
be,” roared little Mr Pepperpot. “ By Jupiter, it is my wig, 
with a live rat in it.” 

“Confound your wig!— ah,” quoth Paul, as the steward 
fished up what I took at first for a pair of brim-full water- 
stoups. “ Zounds ! look at my boots.” 

“ And confound both the wig and boots, say I, sung out 
Mr Bang. “ Look at my Sunday coat. Why, who set the ship 
on five, Tom? ” 

Here his eye caught mine, and a few words sufficed to ex- 
plain how we were situated, and then the only bother was 
how to get ashore, and where we were to sojourn, so as to 


390 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


have our clothes dried, as nothing could now be done until 
daylight. I therefore got our friends safely into a Nassau 
boat alongside, with their wet trunks and portmanteaus in 
charge of their black servants, and left them to fish their way 
to their lodging-house as they best could. By this, our- negro 
captives had been landed, and delivered over to the proper 
authorities, and the wounded and the sound part of the crew 
had been placed on board of two merchant brigs, that lay 
close to us; the masters of them proving accommodating 
men, I got them alongside, as the tide flowed, one on the 
starboard, the other on the larboard side, right over the 
Wave; and next forenoon, when they took the ground, we 
rigged two spare topmasts from onq vessel to another, and 
making the main and fore-rigging of the schooner fast to 
them, as the tide once more made, we weighed her, and 
floated her alongside of the sheer-hulk, against which we 
were enabled to heave her out, so as to get at the leak, and 
then by rigging bilge-pumps, we contrived to free her and 
keep her dry. The damaged plank was soon removed; and, 
being in a fair way to surmount all my difficulties, about 
half -past five in the evening I equipped myself in dry clothes, 
and proceeded on shore to call on our friends at their new 
domicile. When I entered, I was shewn into the dining-hall 
by my ally, Pegtop. 

“ Massa will be here presently, sir.” 

u Oh — tell him he need not hurry himself : — But how are 
Mr Bang and his friends ? ” 

“ Oh, dem all wery so so, only Massa Wagtail hab take soch 
a terrible cold, dat him tink he is going to dead; him wery 
sorry for himshef, for true, massa.” 

“ But where are the gentlemen, Pegtop ? ” 

“ All, every one of dem, is in him bed. Wet clothes have 
been drying all day.” 

“ And when do they mean to dine ? ” 

Here Pegtop doubled himself up, and laughed like to split 
himself. 

“Dem is all dining in bed, massa. Shall I shew you to 
dem ? ” 

“ I shall be obliged ; but don’t let me intrude. Give my 
compliments, and say I have looked in simply to inquire after 
their health.” 

Here Mr Wagtail shouted from the inner apartment. 

“Hillo! Tom my boy! Tom Cringle! — here, my lad, 
here ! ” 

I was shewn into the room from whence the voice pro- 
ceeded, which happened to be Massa Aaron’s bed-room: and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


391 


there were my three friends stretched on sofas, in their 
night-clothes, with a blanket, sheet, and counterpane over 
each, forming three sides of a square round a long table, on 
which a most capital dinner was smoking, with wines of sev- 
eral kinds, and a perfect galaxy of wax candles, and their 
sable valets, in nice clean attire, and smart livery coats, wait- 
ing on them. 

“ Ah, Tom,” quoth Massa Paul, “ delighted to see you ; — 
come, you seem to have dry clothes on, so take the head of 
the table.” 

I did so; and broke ground forthwith with great zeal. 

“ Tom, a glass of wine, my dear,” said Aaron. “ Don’t you 
admire us — classical, after the manner of the ancients, eh? 
Wagtail’s head-dress, and Paul’s night-cap — oh, and the com- 
forts of a woollen one! Ah, Tom, Tom, the Greeks had no 
Kilmarnock — none.” 

We all carried on cheerily, and Bang began to sparkle. 

“ Well, now since you have weighed the schooner and 
found not much wanting, I feel my spirits rising again. — A 
glass of champagne, Tom, — your health, boy. — The dip the 
old hooker has got must have surprised the rats and cock- 
roaches. Do you know, Tom, I really have an idea of writing 
a history of the cruise; only I am deterred from the melan- 
choly consciousness that every blockhead now-a-days fancies 
he can write.” 

“ Why, my dear sir, are you not coquetting for a compli- 
ment? Don’t we all know, that many of the crack articles 
in Ebony’s Mag ” 

“Bah,” clapping his hand on my mouth; “hold your 
tongue; all wrong in that ” 

“ Well, if it be not you then, I scarcely know to whom 
to attribute them. — Until lately, I only knew you as the 
warmhearted West Indian gentleman; but now I am certain 
I am to ” 

“Tom, hold your tongue, my beautiful little man. For, 
although I must plead guilty to having mixed a little in lit- 
erary society in my younger days — 

‘ Alas ! my heart, those days are gane. 1 

Ah, Mr Swop,” continued Mr Bang, as the master was ush- 
ered into the room. “ Plate and glasses for Mr Swop.” 

The sailor bowed, perched himself on the very edge of his 
chair, scarcely within long arm’s length of the table, and 
sitting bolt upright, as if he had swallowed a spare studding- 
sail-boom, drank our healths, and smoothed down his hair on 
his brow. 


392 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Captain, I come to report the schooner ready to ” 

“ Poo,” rattled out Mr Bang ; “ time for your tale by and 
by; — help yourself to some of that capital beef, Peter, — so 
— —Yes, my love,” continued our friend, resuming his yarn , 
“I once coped even with John Wilson himself. Yea, in the 
fulness of my powers, I feared not even the Professor.” 

“ Indeed!” said I. 

“ True, as I am a gentleman. Why, I once, in a public 
trial of skill, beat him, even him , by eighteen measured 
inches, from toe to heel.” 

I stared. 

“ I was the slighter man of the two, certainly. Still, in a 
flying leap, I always had the best of it, until he astonished 
the world with the Isle of Palms. From that day forth, my 
springiness and elasticity left me. ■ F alien was my muscles’ 
brawny vaunt.’ I quailed. My genius stood rebuked before 
him. Nevertheless at hop-step-and-jump I was his match 
still. When out came the City of the Plague! From that 
hour, the Great Ostrich could not hold the candle to the 
Flying Philosopher. And now, heaven help me! I can 
scarcely cover nineteen feet, with every advantage of ground 
for the run. It is true, the Professor was always in condition, 
and never required training; now, unless I had time for my 
hard food, I was seldom in wind.” 

Mr Peter Swop, imboldened and brightened by the wine 
he had so industriously swilled, and willing to contribute his 
quota of conversation, having previously jumbled in his nod- 
dle what Mr Bang had said about an ostrich, and hard food, 
asked across the table — 

“ Do you believe ostriches eat iron, Mr Bang ? ” 

Mr Bang slowly put down his glass, and looking with the 
most imperturbable seriousness the innocent master right in 
the face, exclaimed — 

“ Ostriches eat iron ! — Do I believe ostriches eat iron, did 
you say, Mr Swop? Will you have the great kindness to tell 
me if this glass of madeira be poison, Mr Swop ? Why, when 
Captain Cringle there was in the Bight of Benin, from which 

4 One comes out 
Where a hundred go in , 1 

on board of the— what-d’ye-call-her ? I forget her name — they 
had a tame ostrich, which was the wonder of the whole 
squadron. At the first go-off it had plenty of food, but at 
length they had to put it on short allowance of a Winchester 
bushel of tenpenny nails and a pumpbolt a-day; but their 
supplies failing, they had even to reduce this quantity. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


393 


whereby the poor bird, after unavailing endeavours to get 
at the iron ballast, was driven to pick out the iron bolts of 
the ship in the clear moonlight nights, when no one was 
thinking of it ; so that the craft would soon have been a per- 
fect wreck. And as the commodore would not hear of the 
creature being killed, Tom here undertook to keep it on cop- 
per bolts and sheathing until they reached Cape Coast. But 
it would not do; the copper soured on its stomach, and it 
died. Believe an ostrich eats iron, quotha! But to return 
to the training for the jump — I used to stick to beef -steaks 
and a thimbleful of Burton ale; and again I tried the dried 
knuckle parts of legs of five-year-old black-faced muttons; 
but latterly, I trained best on birsled peas and whisky- ” 

“ On what ? ” shouted I in great astonishment. “ On 
what ? ” 

“ Yes, my boys ; parched peas and whisky. Charge properly 
with birsled peas, and if you take a caulker just as you be- 
gin your run, there is the linstock to the gun for you, and 
away you fly through the air on the principle of the Con- 
greve Rocket. Well might that amiable, and venerable, and 
most learned Theban, Cockibus Bungo, who always held the 
stakes on these great occasions, exclaim, in his astonishment 
to Cheesey , the Janitor of many days — as 

‘ Like fire from flint I glanced away , 1 
disdaining the laws of gravitation — 

E£ari/iirj TteXEia; 

IIoOev y rtoOsy Tteratiai. 

By Mercury, I swear, — yea, by his winged heel, I shall have 
at the Professor yet, if I live, and whisky and birsled peas 
fail me not.” 

Here Paul and I laughed outright; but Mr Wagtail ap- 
peared out of sorts somehow; and Swop looked first at one, 
and then at another, with a look of the most ludicrous un- 
certainty as to whether Mr Bang was quizzing him, or 
telling a verity. 

“ Why, Wagtail,” said Gelid, “ what ails you, my boy? ” 

I looked towards our little amiable fat friend. His face 
was much flushed, although I learned that he had been un- 
usually abstemious, and he appeared heated and restless, and 
had evidently feverish symptoms about him. 

“Who’s there?” said Wagtail, looking towards the door 
with a raised look. 

It was Tailtackle, with two of the boys carrying a litter. 


394 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


followed by Peter Mangrove, as if lie had been chief mourner 
at a funeral. Out of the litter a black paw, with fishes or 
splints whipped round it by a band of spunyarn, protruded, 
and kept swaying about like a pendulum. 

“ What have you got there, Mr Tailtackle? ” 

The gunner turned round. 

“ Oh, it is a vagary of Peter Mangrove’s, sir. Not con- 
tented with getting the doctor to set Sneezer’s starboard 
foreleg, he insists on bringing him away from amongst the 
people at the capstan-house.” 

“True, massa — Massa Tailtackle say true; de poor dumb 
dog never shall cure him leg none at all, ’mong de men dere; 
dey all love him so mosh, and make of him so mosh, and 
stuff him wid salt wittal so mosh, till him blood inflamma- 
tion like a hell; and den him so good temper, and so gratify 
wid dere attention, dat I believe him will eat him kicke- 
riboo of sorefut, [surfeit I presumed;] and, beside, I know 
de dog healt will instantly mend if him see you. Oh, Massa 
Aaron, [our friend was smiling,] it not like you to make fun 
of poor black fellow, when him is take de part of soch old 
friend as poor Sneezer. De captain dere cannot laugh, dat is 
if him will only tink on dat fearful cove at Puerto Escon- 
dido, and what Sneezer did for bote of we dere.” 

“ Well, well, Mangrove, my man,” said Mr Bang, “ I will 
ask leave of my friends here to have the dog bestowed in a 
corner of the piazza, so let the boys lay him down there, and 
here is a glass of grog for you — so. — Now go back again,” — 
as the poor fellow had drank our healths. 

Here Sneezer, who had been still as a mouse all this while, 
put his black snout cut of his hammock, and began to cheep 
and whine in his gladness at seeing his master, and the large 
tears ran down his coal-black muzzle as he licked my 
hand, while every now and then he gave a short fondling 
bark, as if he had said, “Ah, master, I thought you had for- 
gotten me altogether, ever since the action where I got my leg 
broke by a grape-shot, but I find I am mistaken.” 

“ Now, Tailtackle, what say you? ” 

“We may ease off the tackles to-morrow afternoon,” said 
the gunner, “ and right the schooner, sir ; we have put in a 
dozen cashaw knees, as tough as leather, and bolted the 
planks tight and fast. You saw these heavy quarters did us 
no good, sir; I hope you will beautify her again, now since 
the Spaniard’s shot has pretty well demolished them already-. 
I hope you won’t replace them, sir. I hope Captain Tran- 
som may see her as she should be, as she was when your 
honour had your first pleasure cruise in her.” Here — but 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


395 


I may have dreamed it — I thought the quid in the honest 
fellow’s cheek stuck out in higher relief than usual for a 
short space. 

“ We shall see, we shall see,” said I. 

“ I say, Don Timotheus,” quoth Bang, “ you don’t mean 
to be off without drinking our healths ? ” as he tipped him a 
tumbler of brandy grog of very dangerous strength. 

The warrant officer drank it, and vanished, and presently 
Mr Gelid’s brother, who had just returned from one of the 
out islands, made his appearance, and after the greeting be- 
tween them was over, the stranger advanced, and with much 
grace invited us en masse to his house. By this time Mr 
Wagtail was so ill, that we could not move that night, our 
chief concern now being to see him properly bestowed; and 
very soon I was convinced that his disease was a violent 
bilious fever. 

The old brown landlady, like all her caste, was a most ex- 
cellent nurse; and after the most approved and skilful sur- 
geon of the town had seen him, and prescribed what was 
thought right, we all turned in. Next morning before any of 
us were up, a whole plateful of cards were handed to us, and 
during the forenoon these were followed by as many invita- 
tions to dinner. We had difficulty in making our election, but 

that day I remember we dined at the beautiful Mrs C ’s, 

and in the evening adjourned to a ball — a very gay affair, 
and I do freely avow, that I never saw so many pretty women 
in a community of the same size before. Oh! it was a little 
paradise, and not without its Eve. But such an Eve! I 
scarcely think the old Serpent himself could have found it 
in his heart to have beguiled her. 

“ I say, Tom, my dear boy,” said Mr Bang, “ do you see that 
darling? Oh, who can picture to himself, without a tear, 
that such a creature of light, such an ethereal-looking thing, 
whose step ‘ would ne’er wear out the everlasting flint/ that 
floating gossamer on the thin air, shall one day become an 
anxious-looking, sharp-featured, pale-faced, loud-tongued, 
thin-bosomed, broad-hipped, wife ! ” 

The next day, or rather in the same night, his Majesty’s 
ship Rabo arrived, and the first tidings we had of it in the 
morning were communicated by Captain Qeuedechat him- 
self, an honest, uproarious sailor, who chose to begin, as many 
a worthy ends, by driving up to the door of the lodging in a 
cart. 

“ Is the captain of the small schooner that was swamped, 
here ? ” he asked of Massa Pegtop. 

“ Eree and easy, this,” thought I. 


396 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ Yes, sir, Captain Cringle is here, but him no get up yet.” 

“ Oh, never mind, tell him not to hurry himself ; but where 
is the table laid for breakfast ? ” 

“ Here, sir,” said Pegtop, as he shewed him into the piazza. 

“ Ah, that will do — so, give me the newspaper, — tol de rol,” 
and he beggn reading and singing, in all the buoyancy of 
mind consequent on escaping from shipboard after a three 
months’ cruise. 

I dressed and came to him as soon as I could; and the gal- 
lant captain, whom I had figured to myself a fine light gossa- 
mer lad of twenty- two, stared me in the face as a fat elderly 
cock of forty at the least; and as to bulk, I would not have 
guaranteed that eighteen stone could have made him kick the 
beam. Plowever, he was an excellent fellow, and that day he 
and his crew were of most essential service in assisting me 
in refitting the Wave, for which I shall always be grateful. 
I had spent the greater part of the forenoon in my profes- 
sional duty, but about two o’clock I had knocked off, in order 
to make a few calls on the families to whom I had introduc- 
tions, and who were afterwards so signally kind to me. I 
then returned to our lodgings in order to dress for dinner, 

before I sallied forth to worthy old Mr N ’s, where we 

were all to dine, when I met Aaron. 

“No chance of our removing to Peter Gelid’s this even- 
ing.” 

“ Why?” I asked. 

“ Oh, poor Pepperpot Wagtail is become alarmingly ill; 

inflammatory symptoms have appeared, and ” Here the 

colloquy was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Peter Gelid — 
a pretty woman enough. She had come to learn herself from 
our landlady, how Mr Wagtail was, and with the kindliness 
of the country, she volunteered to visit poor little Waggy 
in his sick-bed. I did not go into the room with her; but 
when she returned, she startled us all a good deal, by stat- 
ing her opinion that the worthy man was really very ill, 
in which she was corroborated by the doctor, who now ar- 
rived. So soon as the medico saw him, he bled him, and after 
prescribing a lot of effervescing draughts, and various febri- 
fuge mixtures, he left a large blister with the old brown 
landlady, to be applied over his stomach if the wavering 
and flightiness did not leave him before morning. We re- 
turned early after dinner from Mr N ’s to our lodgings, 

and as I knew Gelid was expected at his brother’s in the 
evening, to meet a large assemblage of kindred, and as the 
night was rainy and tempestuous, I persuaded him to trust 
the watch to me; and as our brown landlady had been up 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


397 


nearly the whole of the previous night, I sent for Tailtackle 
to spell me, while the black valets acted with great assidu- 
ity in their capacity of surgeon’s mates. About two in the 
morning, Mr Wagtail became delirious, and it was all that 
I could do, aided by my sable assistants, and an old black 
nurse, to hold him down in his bed. Now was the time to 
clap on the blister, but he repeatedly tore it off, so that at 
length we had to give it up for an impracticable job; and 
Tailtackle, whom I had called from his pallet, where he had 
gone to lie down for an hour, placed the caustico , as the 
Spaniards call it, at the side of the bed. 

“ No use in trying this any more at present,” said I; “ we 
must wait until he gets quieter, Mr Tailtackle; so go to your 
bed, and I shall lie down on this sofa here, where Marie 
Pararoche ” (this was our old landlady) “ has spread sheets, I 
see, and made all comfortable. And send Mr Bang’s serv- 
ant, will you ; ” (friend Aaron had ridden into the country 
after dinner to visit a friend, and the storm, as I conjec- 
tured, had kept him there;) “ he is fresh, and will call me in 
case I be wanted, or Mr Wagtail gets worse.” 

I lay down, and soon fell fast asleep, and I remembered 
nothing, until I awoke about eleven o’clock next morning, 
and heard Mr Bang speaking to Wagtail, at whose bedside he 
was standing. 

“ Pepperpot, my dear, be thankful — you are quite cool — a 
fine moisture on your skin this morning — be thankful, my 
little man — how did your blister rise ? ” 

“My good friend,” quoth Wagtail, in a thin weak voice, 
“ I can’t tell — I don’t know ; but this I perceive, that I am 
unable to rise, whether it has risen or no.” 

“ Ah — weak,” quoth Gelid, who had now entered the room. 

“ Nay,” said Pepperpot, “ not so weak as deucedly sore, and 
on a very unromantic spot, my dears.” 

“ Why,” said Aaron, “ the pit of the stomach is not a very 
genteel department, nor the abdomen neither.” 

“ Why,” said Wagtail, “ I have no blister on either of those 
places, but if it were possible to dream of such a thing, I 
would say it had been clapped on ” 

Here his innate propriety tongue-tied him. 

“ Eh ? ” said Aaron ; “ what, has the caustico that was in- 
tended for the frontiers of Belgium been clapped by mistake 
on the broad Pays Bas? ” 

And so in very truth it turned out; for while we slept, the 
patient had risen, and sat down on the blister that lay, as 
already mentioned, on a chair at his bedside, and again top- 


398 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


pling into bed, had fallen into a sound sleep, from which he 
had blit a few moments before the time I write of awoke. 

“ Why, now,” continued Aaron, to the doctor of the Wave, 
who had just entered — “ why, here is a discovery, my dear 
doctor. You clap a hot blister on a poor fellow’s head to cool 
it, but Doctor Cringle there has cooled Master Wagtail’s 
brain, by blistering his stern — eh? — Make notes, and mind 
you report this to the College of Surgeons.”* 

I cleared myself of these imputations. Wagtail recovered: 
our refitting was completed; our wood, and water, and pro- 
visions replenished; and after spending one of the happiest 
fortnights of my life, in one continued round of gaiety, I 
prepared to leave — with tears in my eyes, I will confess — the 
clear waters, bright blue skies, glorious climate, and warm- 
hearted community of Nassau, New Providence. Well 
might that old villain Blackboard have made this sweet spot 
his favourite rendezvous. By the way, this same J ohn Teach, 
or Blackbeard, had fourteen wives in the lovely island; and 
I am not sure but I could have picked out something approxi- 
mating to the aforesaid number myself, with time and oppor- 
tunity, from among such a galaxy of loveliness as then shone 
and sparkled in this dear little town. Speaking of the pirate 
Blackbeard, I ought to have related that one morning when 
I was at breakfast at Mrs C ’s, the amiable, and beauti- 

ful, and innocent girl-matron — ay, you supercilious son of a 
sea-cook, you may turn up your nose at the expression, but 

* In the manuscript Log forwarded by Mr. Bang, who kindly undertake 
to correct the proofs during his friend Cringle’s absence in the North Sea, 
there is a leaf wafered inhere, with the following in Mr Aaron’s own hand- 
writing — 

“Master Tommy has allowed his fancy some small poetical licenses in this 
his Log. First of all, in chapter ii. of this volume, he lays me out on the 
table, and makes the scorpion sting me in the night, at Don Ricardo Cain- 
pana’s, whereas the villain himself was the hero of the story, and the man 
on whom Transom played off his tricks. But not content with this, he 
makes a bad pun, when speaking of Francesca Cangrejo, which he puts into 
my mouth, forsooth, as if I had not sins enough of mv own to answer for. 
And, secondly, in the present chapter, why he was himself in very truth 
the real King of the Netherlands, the integrity of whose low countries was 
violated, and not poor Wagtail— as thus: Squire Pepperpot, in his delirium 
irritated by the part that Cringle had good-naturedly taken in endeavour- 
ing to clap the blister on his stomach, watched his opportunity, and when 
all hands had fallen into a sound sleep, he got up and approached the sofa, 
where the n a utical was snoozing. Tom, honest fellow, dreaming no harm 
was luxuriating in the genial climate, and sleeping very much as we are 
given to believe little pigs do, as described in the old song,‘so that Pepperpot 
had no difficulty in applying the argument a posteriori, and ha ving covered 
up the sleeping man-of-war, with the cmistico adhering to his latter end 
like bird-lime, he retired noiseless as a cat to his own quarters. Time ran 
on, and when the blister should have risen next morning on Wagtail’s stom- 
ach, Captain Cringle could not ri.se, and the jest went round ; but Thomas 
nevertheless went about as usual, and was the gayest of the gay, dancing 
and singing ; but whenever he dined out, he always carried a brechum with 
him.— This I vouch for.— A. B.’’ 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


399 


if you could have seen the burden of my song* as I saw her, 
and felt the elegancies of her manner and conversation as I 
felt them — but let us stick to Blackbeard, if you please. We 
were all comfortably seated at breakfast; I had finished my 
sixth egg, had concealed a beautiful dried snapper, before 
which even a rizzard haddock sank into insignificance, and 
was bethinking me of finishing off with a slice of Scotch 
mutton-ham, when in slid Mr Bang. He was received with 
all possible cordiality, and commenced operations very vigor- 
ously. 

He was an amazing favourite of our hostess, (as where 
was he not a favourite?) so that it was some time before he 
even looked my way. We were in the midst of a discussion 
regarding the beauty of New Providence, and the West 
India Islands in general; and I was remarking that nature 
had been liberal, that the scenery was unquestionably mag- 
nificent in the larger islands, and beautiful in the smaller; 
but there were none of those heart-stirring reminiscences, 
none of those thrilling electrical associations, which vibrate 
to the heart at visiting scenes in Europe famous in antiquity 
— famous as the spot in which recent victories had been 
achieved — famous even for the very freebooters, who once 
held unlawful sway in the neighbourhood. “ Why, there never 
has flourished hereabouts, for instance, even one thoroughly 
melodramatic thief.” Massa Aaron let me go on, until he 
had nearly finished his breakfast. At length he fired a shot 
at me. 

“ I say, Tom, you are expatiating, I see. Nothing heart- 
stirring, say you? In new countries it would bother you to 
have old associations certainly; and you have had your Rob 
Roy, I grant you, and the old country has had her Robin 
Hood. But has not Jamaica had her Three-fingered Jack? 
Ay, a more gentleman-like scoundrel than either of the for- 
mer. When did Jack refuse a piece of yam, and a cordial 
from his horn, to the wayworn man, white or black? When 
did he injure a woman? When did Jack refuse food and a 
draught of cold water, the greatest boon, in our ardent 
climate, that he could offer, to a wearied child? Oh, there 
was much poetry in the poor fellow! And here, had they 
not that most melodramatic (as you choose to word it) of 
thieves BZac&beard, before whom Bluebeard must for ever 
hide his diminished head? Why, Bluebeard had only one 
wife at a time, although he murdered five of them, whereas 
* “ Burden . — Tom was right here ; she was within a week of her confine- 
ment.— A. B. M 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


400 

Blackbeard had seldom fewer than a dozen, and he was never 
known to murder above three. But I have fallen in with 
such a treasure! Oh, such a discovery! I have been com- 
muning with Noah himself — with an old negro who remem- 
bers this very Blackbeard — the pirate Blackbeard.” 

“ The deuce,” said I ; “ impossible ! ” 

“ But it is true. Why, it is only ninety-four years ago 
since the scoundrel flourished, and this old cock is one hun- 
dred and ten. I have jotted it down — worth a hundred 
pounds. Read, my adorable Mrs C , read.” 

“ But, my dear Mr Bang,” said she, “ had you not better 
read it yourself ? ” 

“ You, if you please,” quoth Aaron, who forthwith set him- 
self to make the best use of his time. 

MEMOIR OF JOHN TEACH, ESQUIRE, VULGARLY CALLED BLACKBEARD, 
BY AARON BANG, ESQUIRE, F.R.S. 

• “ He was the mildest manner’d man 

That ever scuttled ship, or cut a throat ; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman. 

You never could discern his real thought. 

Pity he loved adventurous life’s variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society.” 

John Teach, or Blackbeard, was a very eminent man — a 
very handsome man, and a very devil amongst the ladies. 

We was a Welshman, and introduced the leek into Nassau 
about the year 1718, and was a very remarkable personage, 
although, from some singular imperfection in his moral con- 
stitution, he never could distinguish clearly between meum 
and tuum. 

He found his patrimony was not sufficient to support him, 
and as he disliked agricultural pursuits as much as mercan- 
tile, he got together forty or fifty fine young men one day, 
and borroived a vessel from some merchants that was lying 
at the Nore, and set sail for the Bahamas. On his way he 
fell in with several West Indiamen, and, sending a boat on 
board of each, he asked them for the loan of provisions and 
wine, and all their gold and silver, and clothes, which re- 
quest was in every instance but one civilly acceded to ; where- 
upon, drinking their goodhealths, he returned to his ship. 
In the instance where he had been uncivilly treated, to shew 
his forbearance, he saluted them with twenty-one guns; but 
by some accident the shot had not been withdrawn, so that 
unfortunately the contumacious ill-bred craft sank, and as 
Blackbeard’s own vessel was very crowded, he was unable to 



TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


401 


save any of the crew. He was a great admirer of fine air, 
and accordingly established himself on the Island of New 
Providence, and invited a number of elegant young men, 
who were fond of pleasure cruises, to visit him, so that 
presently he found it necessary to launch forth, in order to 
borrow more provisions. 

At this period he was a great dandy; and amongst other 
vagaries, he allowed his beard to grow a foot long at the 
shortest, and then plaited it into three strands, indicating 
that he was a bashaw of no common dimensions. He wore 
red breeches, but no stockings, and sandals of bullock’s hide. 
He was a perfect Egyptian in his curiousness in fine linen, 
and his shirt was always white as the driven snow when it 
was clean, which was the first Sunday of every month. In 
waistcoats he was especially select; but the cut of them very 
much depended on the fashion in favour with the last gen- 
tleman he had borrowed from. He never wore any thing but 
a full dress purple velvet coat, under which bristled three 
brace of pistols, and two naked stilettoes, only eighteen 
inches long, and he had generally a lighted match fizzing in 
the bow of his cocked scraper, whereat he lighted his pipe, 
or fired otf a cannon, as pleased him. 

One of his favourite amusements, when he got half slewed, 
was to adjourn to the hold of his compotators, and kind- 
ling some brimstone matches, to dance and roar, as if he had 
been the devil himself, until his allies were nearly suffocated. 
At another time he would blow out the candles in the cabin, 
and blaze away with his loaded pistols at random, right and 
left, whereby he severely wounded the feelings of some of 
his intimates by the poignancy of his wit, all of which he 
considered a most excellent joke. But he was kind to his 
fourteen wives so long as he was sober, as it is known that he 
never murdered above three of them. His borrowing, how- 
ever, gave offence to our government, no one can tell how; 
and at length two of our frigates, the Lime and Pearl, then 
cruising off the American coast, after driving him from his 
stronghold, hunted him down in an inlet in North Carolina, 
where, in an eight-gun schooner, with thirty desperate fel- 
lows, he made a defence worthy of his honourable life, and 
fought so furiously that he killed and wounded more men of 
the attacking party than his own crew consisted of; and 
following up his success, he boarded, sword in hand, the 
headmost of the two armed sloops, which had been detached 
by the frigates, with ninety men on board, to capture him; 
and being followed by twelve men and his trusty lieutenant, 
he would have carried her out and out, maugre the disparity 


402 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


of force, had he not fainted from loss of blood, when, falling 
on his back, he died where he fell, like a hero — 

“ His face to the sky, and his feet to the foe 

leaving eleven forlorn widows, being the fourteen wives, 
minus the three that he had throttled. 


“No chivalrous associations indeed! Match me such a 
character as this.” 

We all applauded to the echo. But I must end my song, 
for I should never tire in dwelling on the happy days we 
spent in this most enchanting little island. The lovely 
blithe girls, and the hospitable kind-hearted men, and the 
children! I never saw such cherubs, with all the sprightli- 
ness of the little pale-faced Creoles of the West Indies, 
while the healthy bloom of Old England blossomed on their 
cheeks. 

“ I say, Tom,” said Massa Aaron, on one occasion, when I 
was rather tedious on the subject, “ all those little cherubs , 
as you call them, at least the most of them, are the offi- 
spring of the cotton bales captured in the American war.” 

“ The what ? ” said I. 

“ The children of the American war — and I will prove it 
thus — taking the time from no less an authority than Ham- 
let, when he chose to follow the great Dictator, Julius Caesar 
himself, through all the corruption of our physical nature, 
until he found him stopping a beer barrel — (only imagine 
the froth of one of our disinterested friend Buxton’s beer 
barrels, savouring of quassia, not hop, fizzing through the 
clay of Julius Caesar the Roman !) — as thus: If there had 
been no Yankee war, there would have been no prize cargoes 
of cotton sent into Nassau; if there had been no prize car- 
goes sent into Nassau, there would have been little money 
made; if there had been little money made, there would have 
been fewer marriages; if there had leen fewer marriages, 
there would have been fewer cherubs. There is logic for you, 
my darling.” 

“ Your last is a non sequitur, my dear sir,” said I, laughing, 
“ But, in the main, Parson Mai thus is right, out of Ireland 
that is, after all.” 

That evening I got into a small scrape, by impressing three 
apprentices out of a Scotch brig, and if Mr Bang had not 
stood my friend, I might have got into serious trouble. 
Thanks to him, the affair was soldered. 

When on the eve of sailing, having received a letter order- 
ing me to join the Firebrand at Crooked Island, my excel- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


403 


lent friends, Messrs Bang, Gelid, and Wagtail, determined, 
in consequence of letters which they had received from Ja- 
maica, to return home in a beautiful armed brig that was to 
sail in a few days, laden with flour. I cannot well describe 
how much this moved me. Young and enthusiastic as I was, 
I had grappled myself with hooks of steel to Mr Bang; and 
now, when he unexpectedly communicated his intention of 
leaving me, I felt more forlorn and deserted than I was will- 
ing to plead to. 

“ My dear boy,” said he, “ make my peace with Transom. 
If urgent business had not pressed me, I would not have 
broken my promise to rejoin him; but I am imperiously 
called for in Jamaica, where I hope soon to see you.” He 
continued, with a slight tremor in his voice, which thrilled 
to my heart, as it vouched for the strength of his regard, — 
“ If ever I am where you may come, Tom, and you don’t 
make my house your home, provided you have not a better of 
your own, I will never forgive you.” He paused. “ You 
young fellows sometimes spend faster than you should do, 
and quarterly bills are long of coming round. I have drawn 
for more money than I want. I wish you would let me be 
your banker for a hundred pounds, Tom.” 

I squeezed his hand. “ No, no — many, many thanks, my 
dear sir — but I never outrun the constable. Good by, God 
bless you. Earewell, Mr Wagtail — Mr Gelid, adieu.” I tum- 
bled into the boat and pulled on board. The first thing I did 
was to send the wine and sea stock, a most exuberant assort- 
ment unquestionably, belonging to my Jamaica friends, 
ashore; but, to my surprise, the boat was sent back, with Mr 
Bang’s card, on which was written in pencil, “ Don’t affront 
us. Captain Cringle.” Thereupon I got the schooner under 
weigh, and no event worth narrating turned up until we 
anchored close to the post-office at Crooked Island, two days 
after.. 

We found the Firebrand there, and the post-office mail- 
boat, with her red flag and white horse in it, and I went on 
board the corvette to deliver my official letter, detailing the 
incidents of the cruise, and was most graciously received by 
my captain. 

There was a sail in sight when we anchored, which at first 
we took for the Jamaica packet; but it turned out to be the 
Tinker, friend Bang’s flour-loaded brig; and by five in the 
evening our allies were all three once more restored to us, 
but, alas ! so far as regarded two of them, only for a moment. 
Messrs Gelid and Wagtail, had, on second thoughts, it seems, 
hauled their wind to lay in a stock of turtle at Crooked 


404 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


Island, and I went ashore with them, and assisted in the 
selection from the turtle crawls filled with beautiful clear 
water, and lots of fine lively fresh-caught fish, the postmas- 
ter being the turtle-merchant. 

“ I say, Paul, happier in the fish way here than you were 
at Biggleswade, eh ? ” said Aaron. 

After we had completed our purchases, our friends went 
on board the corvette, and I was invited to meet them at din- 
ner, where the aforesaid postmaster, a stout conch, with a 
square-cut coatee and red cape and cuffs, was also a guest. 

He must have had but a dull time of it, as there were no 
other white inhabitants, that I saw, on the island besides him- 
self; his wife having gone to Nassau, which he looked on as 
the prime city of the world, to be confined, as he told us. 
Bang said, that she must rather have gone to be delivered 
from confinement ; and, in truth, Crooked Island was a most 
desolate domicile for a lady; our friend the postmaster’s 
family, and a few negroes employed in catching turtle, and 
making salt, and dressing some scrubby cotton-trees, com- 
posing the whole population. In the evening the packet did 
arrive, however, and Captain Transom received his orders. 

“ Captain Transom, my boy,” quoth Bang, towards night- 
fall, “ the best of friends must part — we must move — good- 
night — we shall be off presently — good-by,” and he held out 
his hand. 

“ Devil a bit,” said Transom; u Bang, you shall not go, 
neither you nor your friends. You promised, in fact shipped 

with me for the cruise, and Lady has my word and 

honour that you shall be restored to her longing eye, sound 
and safe — so you must all remain, and send down the flour 
brig to say you are coming.” 

To make a long story short, Massa Aaron was boned, but 
his friends were obdurate, so we all weighed that night, the 
linker bearing up for Jamaica, while we kept by the wind, 
steering for Gonaives in St Domingo. 

The third day we were off Cape St Nicholas, and getting 
a slant of. wind from the westward, we ran up the Bight of 
Leogane all that night, but towards morning it fell calm; 
we were close in under the high land, about two miles from 
the shore, and the night was the darkest I ever was out in 
any where. There were neither moon nor stars to be seen, 
and the dark clouds settled down, until they appeared to rest 
upon our mastheads, compressing, as it were, the hot steamy 
air upon us until it became too dense for breathing. In the 
early part of the night it had rained in heavy showers now 
and then, and there were one or two faint flashes of lightning, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


405 


and some heavy peals of thunder, which rolled amongst the 
distant hills in loud shaking reverberations, which gradually 
became fainter and fainter, until they grumbled away in the 
distance in hoarse murmurs, like the low notes of an organ in 
one of our old cathedrals ; but now there was neither rain nor 
wind — all nature seemed fearfully hushed; for where we lay, 
in the smooth bight, there was no swell, not even a ripple, on 
the glass-like sea; the sound of the shifting of a handspike, 
or the tread of the men, as they ran to haul on a rope, 
or the creaking of the rudder, sounded loud and distinct. The 
sea in our neighbourhood was strongly phosphorescent, so 
that the smallest chip thrown overboard struck fire from the 
water, as if it had been a piece of iron cast on flint; and 
when you looked over the quarter, as I delight to do, and 
tried to penetrate into the dark clear profound beneath, you 
every now and then saw a burst of pale light, like a halo, far 
down in the depths of the green sea, caused by the motion 
of some fish, or of what Jack, no great natural philosopher, 
usually calls blubbers ; and when the dolphin, or skip-jack, 
leapt into the air, they sparkled out from the still bosom of 
the deep dark water like rockets, until they fell again into 
their element in a flash of fire. This evening the corvette 
had shewed no lights, and although I conjectured she was 
not far from us, still I could not with any certainty indicate 
her whereabouts. It might now have been about three o’clock, 
and I was standing on the aftermost gun on the starboard 
side, peering into the imperious darkness over the taflerel, 
with my dear old dog Sneezer by my side, nuzzling and 
fondling after his affectionate fashion, while the pilot, Peter 
Mangrove, stood within handspike length of me. The dog 
had been growling, but all in fun, and snapping at me, when 
in a moment he hauled off, planted his paws on the rail, 
looked forth into the night, and gave a short anxious bark, 
like the solitary pop of the sentry’s musket to alarm the 
mav ' ;d in out-post work. 

‘ -ove advanced, and put his arm round the dog’s 
nec > 1 see, my shild ? ” said the black pilot, 

S ■. his voice, and gave a long continuous 


grow 

“A 

near 

yeerie 

Ih.‘ 

whatf 

Prest 

placf 


sharply, “ Massa Captain, someting 
— de dog yeerie someting we can’t 
.°an’t see.” 

. ?r to despise any caution, from 
1S0 I listened, still as a stone. 
, distant splash of oars. I 
Vud waited with breathless 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


406 


attention. Immediately I saw the sparkling dip of them in 
the calm black water, as if a boat, and a large one, was pulling 
very fast towards us. “ Look out, hail that boat ,’ 7 said I. 

“ Boat ahoy ! ” sung out the man to whom I had spoken. 
No answer. “ Coming here?” reiterated the seaman. No 
better success. The boat or canoe, or whatever it might be, 
was by this time close aboard of us, within pistol-shot at 
the farthest — no time to be lost, so I hailed myself, and this 
time the challenge did produce an answer. 

“ Sore boat — fruit and wegitab.” 

“ Shore boat, with fruit and vegetables, at this time of 
night — I don’t like it,” said I. “Boatswain’s mate — all hands 
— pipe away the boarders. Cutlasses, men — quick — a piratical 
row-boat is close to.” And verily we had little time to lose, 
when a large canoe or row-boat, pulling twelve oars at the 
fewest, and carrying twenty-five men or thereabouts, swept 
up on our larboard quarter, hooked on, and the next moment 
upwards of twenty unlooked-for visiters scrambled up our 
shallow side, and jumped on board. All this took place so 
suddenly, that there were not ten of my people ready to re- 
ceive them, but those ten were the prime men of the ship. 

“Surrender, you scoundrels! — surrender! You have 
boarded a man-of-war. Down with your arms, or we shall 
kill you to a man.” 

But they either did not understand me, or did not believo 
me, for the answer was a blow from a cutlass, which, if I had 
not parried with my night-glass, which it broke in pieces, 
might have effectually stopped my promotion. 

“ Cut them down boarders, down with them — they are pi- 
rates,” shouted I ; “ heave cold shot into their boat alongside 
— all hands, Mr Rouse-em-out,” to the boatswain, “ call all 
hands.” 

We closed. The assailants had no firearms, but they were 
armed with swords and long knives, and as they fought with 
desperation, several of our people were cruelly hagr 1 -' ->nd 


after the first charge, the combatants on both 
so blended, that it was impossible to strike 
running the risk of cutting down a friend 
hands were on deck; the boat alongsid 
by the cold shot that had been hovr 
bottom, when down came a show' 
clouds, or water-spout — call it w 1 
lutely deluged the decks, the scur 
carry off the water. So long 2 
I had no fears, as, dark as it w 
knew where to strike and 


ne 
.out 
e all 
nped 
1 her 
irged 
abso- 
ffe to 
body, 
dher, 
t of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


407 

rain descended in bucketfuls, the former broke away, and 
were pursued singly into various corners about the deck, all 
escape being cut off from the swamping of their boat. Still 
they were not vanquished, and I ran aft to the binnacle, 
where a blue light was stowed away — one of several that we 
had got on deck to burn that night, in order to point out our 
whereabouts to the Firebrand. I fired it, and rushing for- 
ward, cutlass-in-hand, we set on the gang of black despera- 
does with such fury, that after killing two of them outright, 
and wounding and taking prisoners seven, we drove the rest 
overboard into the sea, where the small-armed men who by 
this time had tackled to their muskets, made short work of 
them, guided as they were by the sparkling of the dark water, 
as they struck out and swam for their lives. The blue light 
was immediately answered by another from the corvette, 
which lay about a mile off ; but before her boats, two of which 
were immediately armed and manned, could reach us, we had 
defeated our antagonists, and the rain had increased to such a 
degree, that the heavy drops, as they fell with a strong rush- 
ing noise into the sea, flashed it up into one entire sheet of 
fire. 

We secured our prisoners, all blacks and mulattoes, the 
most villainous-looking scoundrels I had ever seen, and 
shortly after it came on to thunder and lightning, as if 
heaven and earth had been falling together. A most vivid 
flash — it almost blinded me. Presently the Firebrand burnt 
another blue light, whereby we saw that her maintopmast 
was gone close by the cap, with the topsail, and upper spars, 
and yards, and gear, all hanging down in a lumbering mass 
of confused wreck; she had been struck by the levin brand, 
which had killed four men, and stunned several more. 

By this time the cold gray streaks of morning appeared in 
the eastern horizon — soon after the day broke; and by two 
o’clock in the afternoon, both corvette and schooner were at 
anchor at Gonaives. The village, for town it could not be 
called, stands on a low hot plain, as if the washings of the 
mountains on the left hand side as we stood in had been car- 
ried out into the sea, and formed into a white plateau of 
sand; all was hot, and stunted, and scrubby. We brought up 
inside of the corvette, in three fathoms water. My superior 
officer had made the private signal to come on board and 
dine. I dressed, and the boat was lowered down, and we 
pulled for the corvette, but our course lay under the stern 
of two English ships that were lying there loading cargoes 
of coffee. 

“ Pray, sir,” said a decent-looking man, who leant on the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


408 

tafferel of one of them — “ Pray, sir, are you going on board 
of the Commodore ? ” 

“ I am,” I answered. 

“ I am invited there too, sir ; will you have the kindness to 
say I will be there presently ? ” 

“ Certainly — give way, men.” 

Presently we were alongside the corvette, and the next mo- 
ment we stood on her deck, holy stoned white and clean, with 
my staunch friend Captain Transom and his officers, all in 
full fig, walking to and fro under the awning, a most mag- 
nificent naval lounge, being thirty- two feet wide at the gang- 
way, and extending fifty feet or more aft, until it narrowed to 
twenty at the tafferel. We were all — the two masters of the 
merchantmen, decent respectable men in their way, included 
— graciously received, and sat down to an excellent dinner, 
Mr Bang taking the lead as usual in all the fun; and we 
were just on the verge of cigars and cold grog, when the first 
lieutenant came down and said that the captain of the port 
had come off, and was then on board. 

“ Shew him in,” said Captain Transom, and a tall, vulgar - 
looking blackamoor, dressed apparently in the cast-off coat of 
a French grenadier officer, entered the cabin with his chapeau 
in his hand, and a Madras handkerchief tied round his woolly 
skull. He made his bow, and remained standing near the 
door. 

“ You are the captain of the port? ” said Captain Transom. 
The man answered in French, that he was. “ Why, then, take 
a chair, sir, if you please.” 

He begged to be excused, and after tipping off his bumper 
of claret, and receiving the captain’s report, he made his bow 
and departed. 

I returned to the Wave, and next morning I breakfasted on 
board of the Commodore, and afterwards we all proceeded on 

shore to Monsieur B ’s, to whom Massa Aaron was known. 

The town, if I may call it so, had certainly a very desolate 
appearance. There was nothing stirring; and although a 
group of idlers, amounting to about twenty or thirty, did col- 
lect about us on the end of the wharf, which, by the by, was 
terribly out of repair, yet they all appeared ill clad, and in no 
way so well furnished as the blackies in Jamaica; and when 
we marched up through a hot, sandy, unpaved street into the 
town, the low, one story, shabby-looking houses were fallen 
into decay, and the streets more resembled river-courses than 
thoroughfares, while the large carrion-crows were picking gar- 
bage on the very crown of the causeway, without apparently 
entertaining the least fear of us,. or of the negro children who 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


409 


were playing close to them, so near, in fact, that every now 
and then one of the urchins would aim a blow at one of the 
obscene birds, when it would give a loud discordant croak, 
and jump a pace or two, with outspread wings, but without 
taking flight. Still many of the women, who were sitting un- 
der the small piazzas, or projecting eaves of the houses, with 
their little stalls, filled with pullicate handkerchiefs, and 
pieces of muslin, and ginghams for sale, were healthy-looking, 
and appeared comfortable and happy. As we advanced into 
the town, almost every male w T e met was a soldier, all rigged 
and well dressed, too, in the French uniform; in fact, the re- 
markable man. King Henry, or Christophe, took care to have 
his troops well fed and clothed in every case. On our way we 

had to pass by the Commandant, Baron B ’s house, when 

it occurred to Captain Transom that we ought to stop and pay 
our respects; but Mr. Bang, being bound by no such etiquette, 

bore up for his friend Monsieur B ’s. As we approached 

the house — a long, low, one-story building, with a narrow 
piazza, and a range of unglazed windows, staring open, with 
their wooden shutters, like ports in a ship’s side, towards the 
street — we found a sentry at the door, who, when we an- 
nounced ourselves, carried arms, all in regular style. Pres- 
ently a very good-looking negro, in a handsome aide-de-camp’s 
uniform, appeared, and, hat in hand, with all the grace in the 
world, ushered us into the presence of the Baron, who -was 
lounging in a Spanish chair half asleep ; but on hearing us an- 
nounced, he rose, and received us with great amenity. He was 
a fat elderly negro, so far as I could judge, about sixty years 
of age, and was dressed in very wide jean trowsers, over which 
a pair of well-polished Hessian boots were drawn, which, by 
adhering close to his legs, gave him, in contrast with the wide 
puffing of his garments above, the appearance of being un- 
derlimbed, which he by no means was, being a stout old 
Turk. 

After a profusion of congees and fine speeches, and super- 
abundant assurances of the esteem in which his master King 
Henry held our master King George, we made our bows and 

repaired to Monsieur B ’s, where I was engaged to dine. 

As for Captain Transom, he went on board that evening to 
superintend the repairs of the ship. 

There was no one to meet us but Monsieur B and his 

daughter, a tall and very elegant brown girl, who had been 
educated in France, and did the honours incomparably well. 
We sat down, Massa Aaron whispering in my lug , that in 
Jamaica it was not quite the thing to introduce brown ladie3 


4io 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


at dinner; but, as he said, “Why not? Neither you nor I 
are high caste creoles — so en avant.” 

Dinner was nearly over, when Baron B ’s aide-de-camp 

slid into the room. Monsieur B rose. “ Captain Latour, 

you are welcome — be seated. I hope you have not dined ? ” 

“ Why, no,” said the negro officer, as he drew a chair, while 
he exchanged glances with the beautiful Eugenie, and sat 
himself down close to el Senor Bang. 

“ Ilillo, Quasliie ! Whereaway, my lad ? a little above the 
salt, an’t you? ” ejaculated our amigo; while Pegtop, who had 
just come on shore, and was standing behind his master, 
stared and gaped in the greatest wonderment. But Mr Bang’s 
natural good-breeding, and knowledge of the world, instantly 
recalled him to time and circumstances ; and when the young 
officer looked at him, regarding him with some surprise, he 
bowed, and invited him, in the best French he could muster, 
to drink wine. The aide-de-camp was, as I have said, jet- 
black as the ace of spades; but he was, notwithstanding, so 
far as figure went, a very handsome man — tall and well made, 
especially about the shoulders, which were beautifully formed, 
and, in the estimation of a statuary, would probably have bal- 
anced the cucumber curve of the shin ; his face, however, was 
regular negro — flat nose, heavy lips, fine eyes, and beautiful 
teeth, and he wore two immense gold ear-rings. His woolly 
head was bound round with a pullicate handkerchief, which 
we had not noticed until he took off his laced cocked hat. His 
coat was the exact pattern of the French staff uniform at the 
time — plain blue, without lace, except at the cape and cuffs, 
which were of scarlet cloth, covered with rich embroidery. He 
wore a very handsome straight sword, with steel scabbard, and 
the white trowsers, and long Hessian boots, already described 
as part of the costume of his general. 

Mr Bang, as I have said, had rallied by this time, and, 
with the tact of a gentleman, appeared to have forgotten 
whether his new ally was black, blue, or green, while the 
claret, stimulating him into self-possession, was evaporating 
in broken French. But his man Pegtop had been pushed off 
his balance altogether; his equanimity was utterly gone. 
When the young officer brushed past him, at the first go off, 
while he was rinsing some glasses in the passage, his sword 
banged against Pegtop’s derriere as he stooped down over his 
work. Pie started and looked round, and merely exclaimed — 
“ Eigh , Massa Niger, wurra dat ! ” But now, when standing 
behind his master’s chair, he saw the aide-de-camp consorting 
with him , whom he looked upon as the greatest man in ex- 
istence, on terms of equality, all his faculties were paralyzed., 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


41 1 

“Pegtop,” said I, “hand me some yam, if you please.” 

He looked at me all agape, as if he had been half strangled. 

“ Pegtop, you scoundrel’” quoth Massa Aaron, “ don’t you 
hear what Captain Cringle says, sir ? ” 

“ Oh yes, massa ; ” and thereupon the sable valet brought 
me a bottle of fish sauce, which he endeavoured to pour into 
my wine glass. All this while Eugenie and the aide-de-camp 
were playing the agreeable — and in very good taste, too, let 
me tell you. 

I had just drunk wine with mine host, when I cast my 
eye along the passage that led out of the room, and there was 
Pegtop dancing, and jumping, and smiting his thigh, in an 
ecstacy of laughter, as he doubled himself up, with the tears 
welling over his cheeks. 

“ 0 Lord ! Oh ! — Massa Bang bow, and make face, and drink 
wine, and do every ting shivil, to one dam black rascal nigger ! 
— Oh, blackee more worser than me, Gabriel Pegtop — O Lard ! 
— ha ! ha ! ha ! ” — Thereupon he threw himself down in the 
piazza, amongst plates and dishes, and shouted and laughed 
in a perfect frenzy, until Mr Bang got up and thrust the poor 
fellow out of doors, in a pelting shower, which soon so far 
quelled the hysterical passion, that he came in again, grave 
as a judge, and took his place behind his master’s chair once 
more, and everything went on smoothly. The aide-de-camp, 
who appeared quite unconscious that he was the cause of the 
poor fellow’s mirth, renewed his attentions to Eugenie; and 
Mr Bang, M. B , and myself, were again engaged in con- 

versation, and our friend Pegtop was in the act of handing a 
slice of melon to the black officer, when a file of soldiers, with 
fixed bayonets, stept into the piazza, and ordered arms, one 
taking up his station on each side of the door. Presently, an- 
other aide-de-camp, booted and spurred, dashed after them; 
and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, sung out, “ Place , 
pour Monsieur le Baron.” 

The electrical nerve was again touched — “ Oh ! — oh ! — oh ! 
Garamighty! here comes anoder on dem,” roared Pegtop, 
sticking the slice of melon, which was intended for Made- 
moiselle Eugenie, into his own mouth, to quell the paroxysm, 
if possible, (while he fractured the plate on the black aide’s 
skull,) and immediately blew it out again, with an explosion, 
and a scattering of the fragments, as if it had been the blast- 
ing of a stone quarry. 

“ Zounds, this is too much,” — exclaimed Bang, as he rose 
and kicked the poor fellow out again, with such vehemence, 
that his skull, encountering the paunch of our friend the 


412 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


baron, who was entering from the street at that instant, cap- 
sized him outright, and away rolled his Excellency the Gen- 
eral de Division, Commandant de l’Arrondissement, &c. &c., 
digging his spurs into poor Pegtop’s transom, and sacring 
furiously, while the black servant roared as if he had been 
harpooned by the very devil. The aides started to their feet — 
and one of them looked at Mr Bang, and touched the hilt of 
his sword, grinding the word * satisfaction” between his 
teeth, while the other ordered the sentries to run the poor fel- 
low, whose mirth had been so uproarious, through. However, 
he got off with one or two progues in a very safe place; and 

when Monsieur B explained how matters stood, and that 

the “ pauvre diable” as the black baron coolly called him, w r as 
a mere servant, and an uncultivated creature, and that no in- 
sult was meant, we had all a hearty laugh, and every thing 
rolled right again. At length the baron and his black tail rose 
to wish us a good evening, and we were thinking of finishing - 
off with a cigar and a glass of cold grog, when Monsieur 
B ’s daughter returned into the piazza very pale, and evi- 

dently much frightened. “ Mon Pere” said she — while her 
voice quavered from excessive agitation — “ My father — why 
do the soldiers remain ? ” 

We all peered into the dark passage, and there, true enough, 
were the black sentries at their posts beside the doorway, still 

and motionless as statues. Monsieur B , poor fellow, fell 

back in his chair at the sight, as if he had been shot through 
the heart. 

“ My fate is sealed — I am lost — O Eugenie ! ” were the only 
words he could utter. 

“ No, no,” exclaimed the weeping girl, “ God forbid — the 
baron is a kind-hearted man, King Henry cannot — no, no — he 
knows you are not disaffected, he will not injure you.” 

Here one of the black aides-de-camp suddenly returned. It 
was the poor fellow who had been making love to Eugenie 
during the entertainment. He looked absolutely blue with dis- 
may; his voice shook, and his knees knocked together as he 
approached our host. 

He tried to speak, but could not. “ O Pierre, Pierre,” 
moaned, or rather gasped Eugenie, “ what have you come to 
communicate ? what dreadful news are you the bearer of ? ” 

He held out an open letter to poor B , who, unable to read 

it from excessive agitation, handed it to me. It ran thus : — 

“ Monsieur Le Baron, 

“Monsieur has been arrested here this morning; he 

is a white Frenchman, and there are strong suspicions against 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


413 

him. Place his partner M. B under the surveillance of 

the police instantly. You are made answerable for his safe 
custody. 

“ Witness his Majesty’s hand and seal, at Sans Souci, 
this . . . 

“ The Count 

“ Then I am doomed,” groaned poor M. B . His daugh- 

ter fainted, the black officer wept, and, having laid his sense- 
less mistress on a sofa, he approached and wrung B ’s 

hand. “ Alas, my dear sir — how my heart bleeds ! But cheer 
up — King Henry is just — all may be right — all may still be 
right ; and so far as my duty to him will allow, you may count 
on nothing being done here that is not absolutely necessary 
for holding ourselves blameless with the Government.” 

Enough and to spare of this. We slept on shore that 
night, and a very neat catastrophe was likely to have ensued 
thereupon. Intending to go on board ship at daybreak, I 
had got up and dressed myself, and opened the door into the 
street to let myself out, when I stumbled unwittingly against 
the black sentry,* who must have been half asleep, for he im- 
mediately stepped several paces back, and presenting his mus- 
ket, the clear barrel glancing in the moonlight, snapped it at 
me. Fortunately it missed fire, which gave me time to explain 

that it was not M. B attempting to escape; but that day 

week he was marched to the prison of La Force, near Cape 
Henry, where his partner had been previously lodged; and 
from that hour to this , neither of them were ever heard of. 
Next evening I again went ashore, but I was denied admit- 
tance to him ; and, as my orders were imperative not to inter- 
fere in any way, I had to return on board with a heavy heart. 

The day, following, Captain Transom and myself paid a 
formal visit to the black baron, in order to leave no stone 

unturned to obtain poor B ’s release if we could. Mr Bang 

accompanied us. We found the sable dignitary lounging in a 
grass hammock, (slung from corner to corner of a very com- 
fortless room, for the floor was tiled, the windows were un- 
glazed, and there was no furniture whatever but an old-fash- 
ioned mahogany sideboard and three wicker chairs,) appar- 
ently half asleep, or ruminating after his breakfast. On our 
being announced by a half naked negro servant, who aroused 
him, he got up and received us very kindly — I beg his lord- 
ship’s pardon, I should write graciously — and made us take 
wine and biscuit, and talked and rattled; but I saw he care- 
fully avoided the subject which he evidently knew was the ob- 
ject of our visit. At length, finding it would be impossible 


414 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 

/ 

for him to parry it much longer single-handed, with tact 
worthy of a man of fashion, he called out, “ Marie ! Marie ! ” 
Our eyes followed his, and we saw a young and very handsome 
brown lady rise, whom we had perceived seated at her work 
when we first entered, in a small, dark, back porch, and ad- 
vance after curtsying to us seriatim with great elegance, as 
the old fat nigger introduced her to us as “ Madame la Bar- 
onne.” 

“ His wife ? ” whispered Aaron ; “ the old rank goat ! ” 

Her brown ladyship did the honours of the wine-ewer with 
the perfect quietude and ease of a well-bred woman. She was 
a most lovely, clear-skinned, quadroon girl. She could not 
have been twenty ; tall, and beautifully shaped. Her long coal- 
black tresses were dressed high on her head, which was bound 
round with the everlasting Madras handkerchief, in which 
pale blue was the prevailing colour; but it was elegantly ad- 
justed, and did not come down far enough to shade the fine de- 
velopment of her majestic forehead — Pasta’s in Semiramide 
was not more commanding. Her eyebrows were delicately 
arched and sharply defined, and her eyes of jet were large and 
swimming; her nose had not utterly abjured its African ori- 
gin, neither had her lips, but, notwithstanding, her counte- 
nance shone with all the beauty of expression so conspicuous 
in the Egyptian sphinx — Abyssinian, but most sweet; while 
her teeth were as the finest ivory, and her chin, and throat, 
and bosom, as if her bust had been an antique statue of the 
rarest workmanship. The only ornaments she wore were two 
large virgin gold ear-rings, massive yellow hoops without any 
carving, but so heavy, that they seemed to weigh down the 
small thin transparent ears which they perforated; and a 
broad black velvet band round her neck, to which was ap- 
pended a large massive crucifix of the same metal. She also 
wore two broad bracelets of black velvet clasped with gold. 
Her beautifully moulded form was scarcely veiled by a cam- 
bric chemise , with exceedingly short sleeves, over which she 
wore a rose-coloured silk petticoat, short enough to display a 
finely formed foot and ankle, with a well selected pearl-white 
silk stocking, and a neat low-cut French black kid shoe. As 
for gown, she had none. She wore a large sparkling diamond 
ring on her marriage finger, and we were all bowing before 
the deity, when our attention was arrested by a cloud of dust 
at the top of the street, and presently a solitary black dragoon 
sparked out from it, his accoutrements and headpiece blazing 
in the sun, then three more abreast, and immediately a troop 
of five-and-twenty cavaliers, or thereabouts, came thundering 
down the street. They formed opposite the Baron’s house, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


415 


I will say I never saw a better appointed troop of horse any 
where. Presently an aide-de-camp scampered up; and having 
arrived opposite the door, dismounted, and entering, ex- 
claimed, “ Les Comtes de Lemonade et Marmalade — “ The 
who ? ” said Mr Bang ; but presently two very handsome young 
men of colour, in splendid uniforms, rode up, followed by a 
glittering staff, of at least twenty mounted officers. They 

alighted, and entering, made their bow to Baron B . The 

youngest, the Count Lemonade, spoke very decent English; 
and what between Mr Bang’s and my bad, and Captain Tran- 
som’s very good, French, we all made ourselves agreeable. I 
may state here, that Lemonade and Marmalade are two dis- 
tricts of the island of St Domingo, which had been pitched on 
by Christophe to give titles to two of his fire-new nobility. 
The grandees had come on a survey of the district; and al- 
though we did not fail to press the matter of poor B ’s re- 

lease, yet they either had no authority to interfere in the mat- 
ter, or they would not acknowledge that they had, so we re- 
luctantly took leave, and went on shipboard. 

“ Tom, you villain,” said Mr Bang, as we stepped into the 
boat, “ if my eye had caught yours when these noblemen made 
their entree, I should have exploded with laughter, and most 
likely have had my throat cut for my pains. Pray, did his 
Highness of Lemonade carry a punch-ladle in his hand? I 
am sure I expected he of Marmalade to have carried a jelly- 
can! Oh, Tom, at the moment I heard them announced, my 
old dear mother flitted before my mind’s eye, with the bright, 
well-scoured, large brass pans in the background, as she su- 
perintended her handmaidens in their annual preservations .” 

After the fruitless interview we weighed, and sailed for 
Port-au-Prince, where we arrived the following evening. 

I had heard much of the magnificence of the scenery in the 
Bight of Leogane, but the reality far surpassed what I had 
pictured to myself. The breeze, towards noon of the follow- 
ing day, had come up in a gentle air from the westward, and 
we were gliding along before it like a spread eagle, with all 
our light sails abroad to catch the sweet zephyr, which was 
not even strong enough to ruffle the silver surface of the land- 
locked sea, that glowed beneath the blazing midday sun, with 
a dolphin here and there cleaving the shining surface with an 
arrowy ripple, and a brown-skinned shark glaring on us, far 
down in the deep, clear, green profound, like a water fiend, 
and a slow-sailing pelican overhead, after a long sweep on 
poised wing, dropping into the sea like lead, and flashing up 
the water like the bursting of a shell, as we sailed up into a 
glorious amphitheatre of stupendous mountains, covered with 


416 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


one eternal forest, that rose gradually from the hot sandy 
plains that skirted the shore; while what had once been smil- 
ing fields, and rich sugar plantations, in the long misty level 
districts at their bases, were now covered with brushwood, fast 
rising up into one impervious thicket; and as the island of 
Gonave closed in the view behind us to seaward, the sun sank 
beyond it, amidst rolling masses of golden and blood-red 
clouds, giving token of a goodly day to-morrow, and gilding 
the outline of the rocky islet (as if to a certain depth it had 
been transparent) with a golden halo, gradually deepening 
into imperial purple. Beyond the shadow of the tree-covered 
islet, on the left hand, rose the town of Port-au-Prince, with 
its long streets rising like terraces on the gently swelling 
shore, while the mountains behind it, still gold-tipped in the 
declining sunbeams, seemed to impend frowningly over it, and 
the shipping in the roadstead at anchor off the town were just 
beginning to fade from our sight in the gradually increasing 
darkness, and a solitary light began to sparkle in a cabin win- 
dow and then disappear, and to twinkle for a moment in the 
piazzas of the houses on shore like a will-of-the-wisp, and the 
chirping buzz of myriads of insects and reptiles was coming 
off from the island a-stern of us, borne on the wings of the 
light wind, which, charged with rich odours from the closing 
flowers, fanned us “ like the sweet south, soft breathing o’er 
a bed of violets,” when a sudden flash and a jet of white smoke 
puffed out from the hill-fort above the town, the report thun- 
dering amongst the everlasting hills, and gradually rumbling 
itself away into the distant ravines and valleys, like a lion 
growling itself to sleep, and the shades of night fell on the 
dead face of nature like a pall, and all was undistinguishable. 
— When I had written thus far — it was at Port-au-Prince, at 
Mr S ’s — Mr Bang entered — “ Ah ! Tom — at the Log, pol- 
ishing — using the plane — shaping out something for Ebony — 
let me see.” 

Here our friend read the preceding paragraphs. They did 
not please him. “ Don’t like it, Tom.” 

“ No ? Pray, why, my dear sir ? — I have tried to ” 

“ Hold your tongue, my good boy. 

‘ Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer, 

List, old ladies, o'er your tea. 

At description Tom’s a tailor. 

When he is compared to me. 

Tooral looral loo.’ 

Attend — brevity is the soul of wit, — ahem. Listen how I shall 
crush all your lengthy yarn into an eggshell. ‘ The Bight of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


417 

Leogane is a horseshoe — Cape St Nicholas is the caulker on 
the northern heel — Cape Tiberoon, the ditto on the south — 
Port-au-Prince is the tip at the toe towards the east— 
Gonaives, Leogane, Petit Trouve, &c. &c. &c., are the nails, 
and the island of Gonave is the frog.’ Now every human being 
who knows that a horse has four legs and a tail — of course 
this includes all the human race, excepting tailors and sailors 
must understand this at once; it is palpable and plain, al- 
though no man could have put it so perspicuously, excepting 
my friend, William Cobbett, or myself. By the way, speaking 
of horses, that blood thing of the old baron’s nearly gave you 
your quietus t’ other day, Tom. Why will you always pass the 
flank of a horse in place of going a-head of him, to use your 
own phrase? Never ride near a led horse on passing when 
you can help it; give him a wide berth, or clap the groom’s 
corpus between you and his heels; and never, never go near 
the croup of any quadruped bigger than a cat, for even a cow’s 
is inconvenient, when you can by any possibility help it.” 

I laughed — “ Well, well, my dear sir — but you undervalue 
my equestrian capability somewhat too, for I do pretend to 
know that a horse has four legs and a tail.” 

There was no pleasing Aaron this morning, I saw. 

“ Then, Tummas, my man, you know a deuced deal more 
than I do. As for the tail conceditur — but devilish few horses 
have four legs now-a-days, take my word for it. However, 
here comes Transom; I am ofl to have a lounge with him, and 
I will finish the veterinary lecture at some more convenient 
season. Tol lol de rol .” — Exit singing. 

The morning after this I went ashore at daylight, and, 
guided by the sound of military music, proceeded to the Place 
Republicain, or square before President Petion’s palace, where 
I found eight regiments of foot under arms, with their bands 
playing, and in the act of defiling before General Boyer, who 
commanded the arrondissement. This was the garrison of 
Port-au-Prince, but neither the personal appearance of the 
troops, nor their appointments, were at all equal to those of 
King Plenry’s well-dressed and well-drilled cohorts that we 
saw at Gonaives. The president’s guards were certainly fine 
men, and a squadron of dismounted cavalry, in splendid blue 
uniforms, with scarlet trowsers richly laced, might have vied 
with the elite of Nap’s own, barring the black faces. But the 
materiel of the other regiments was not superfine ,* as M. 
Boyer, before whom they were defiling, might have said. 

I went to breakfast with Mr S , one of the English mer- 

* The present excellent President of the Hay tian Republic had at one 
time been a tailor, I believe. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


418 

chants of the place, a kind and most hospitable man ; and un- 
der his guidance, the captain, Mr Bang, and I, proceeded 
afterwards to call on Petion. Christophe, or King Henry, had 
some time before retired from the siege of Port-au-Prince, 
and we found the town in a very miserable state. Many of the 
houses were injured from shot; the president’s palace, for in- 
stance, was perforated in several places, which had not been 
repaired. In the antechamber you could see the blue heavens 
through the shot-holes in the roof. “ Next time I come to 
court, Tom,” said Mr Bang, “ I will bring an umbrella.” 
Turning out of the parade, we passed through a rickety, un- 
painted open gate, in a wall about six feet high ; the space be- 
yond was an open green or grass-plot, parched and burned up 
by the sun, with a common fowl here and there fluttering and 
botching in the hole she had scratched in the arid soil; but 
there was neither sentry nor servant to be seen, nor any of 
the usual pomp and circumstance about a great man’s 
dwelling. Presently we were in front of a long, low, one-story 
building, with a flight of steps leading up into an entrance- 
hall, furnished with several gaudy sofas, and half-dozen chairs 
— with a plain wooden floor, on which a slight approach to the 
usual West India polish had been attempted, but mightily be- 
hind the elegant domiciles of my Kingston friends in this re- 
spect. In the centre of this room stood three young officers, 
fair mulattoes, with their plumed cocked hats in their hands, 
and dressed very handsomely in French uniforms; and it al- 
ways struck me as curious, that men who hated the very name 
of Frenchman, as the devil hates holy water, should copy 
all the customs and manners of the detested people so closely. 
I piay mention here once for all, that Petion’s officers, who, 
generally speaking, were all men of colour, and not negroes, 
were as much superior in education, and, I fear I must say, in 
intellect, as they certainly were in personal appearance, to the 
black officers of King Henry, as his soldiery were superior to 
those of the neighbouring black republic. 

“ Ah, Monsieur S- , comment vous portez vous? Je suis 

hien aise de vous voir ” said one of the young officers ; “ how 
are you, how have you been ? ” 

“ Vous devenez tout d fait rare quoth a second. “ Le presi- 
dent will be delighted to see you. Why, he says he thought 
you must have been dead, and les messieurs Id ” 

“ Who ? — introduce us.” 

It was done in due form— -the Honourable Captain Tran- 
som, Captain Cringle of his Britannic Majesty’s schooner 
Wave, and Aaron Bang, Esquire. And presently we were all 
as thick as pickpockets. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


419 


u But come, the president will be delighted to see you.” We 
followed the officer who spoke, as he marshalled us along, and 
in an inner chamber, wherein there were also several large 
holes in the ceiling through which the sun shone, we found 
President Petion, the black Washington, sitting on a very old 
ragged sofa, amidst a confused mass of papers, dressed in a 
blue military undress frock, white trowsers, and the everlast- 
ing Madras handkerchief bound round his brows. He was 
much darker than I expected to have seen him, darker than 
one usually sees a mulatto, or the direct cross between the ne- 
gro and the white, yet his features were in no way akin to 
those of an African. His nose was as high, sharp, and well 
defined as that of any Hindoo I ever saw in the Hoogly, and 
his hair was fine and silky. In fact, dark as he was, he was 
at least three removes from the African ; and when I mention 
that he had been long in Europe — he w r as even for a short 
space acting adjutant-general of the army of Italy with Na- 
poleon — his general manner, which was extremely good, kind 
and affable, was not matter of so much surprise. 

He rose to receive us with much grace, and entered into 
conversation with all the ease and polish of a gentleman — “ J e 
me porte assez bien aujourd '? hut; but I have been very un- 
well, M. S , so tell me the news.” Early as it was, he im- 

mediately ordered in coffee; it was brought by two black ser- 
vants, followed by a most sylph-like girl, about twelve years 
of age, the president’s natural daughter : she was fairer than 
her father, and acquitted herself very gracefully. She was 
rigged, pin for pin, like a little woman, with a perfect turret 
of artificial flowers twined amongst the braids of her beautiful 
hair ; and although her neck was rather overloaded with orna- 
ments, and her poor little ears were stretching under the 
weight of the heavy gold and emerald ear-rings, while her 
bracelets were like manacles, yet I had never seen a more 
lovely little girl. She wore a frock of green Chinese crape, be- 
neath which appeared the prettiest little feet in the world. 

We were invited to attend a ball in the evening, given in 
honour of the president’s birthday, and after a sumptuous din- 
ner at our friend Mr S ’s, we all adjourned to the gay 

scene. There was a company of grenadiers of the president’s 
guard, with their band, on duty in front of the palace, as a 
guard of honour ; they carried arms as we passed, all in good 
style; and at the door we met two aides-de-camp in full dress, 
one of whom ushered us into an anteroom, where a crowd of 
brown, with a sprinkling of black ladies, and a whole host of 
brown and black officers, with a white foreign merchant here 
and there, were drinking coffee, and taking refreshments of 


420 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


one kind or another. The ladies were dressed in the very 
height of the newest Parisian fashion of the day — hats and 
feathers, and jewellery, real or fictitious, short sleeves, and 
shorter petticoats — fine silks, and broad blonde trimmings and 
flounces, and low-cut corsages — some of them even venturing 
on rouge, which gave them the appearance of purple dahlias; 
but as to manner, all lady-like and proper; while the men, 
most of them militaires, were as fine as gold and silver lace, 
and gay uniforms, and dress-swords could make them — and all 
was blaze, and sparkle, and jingle; but the black officers, in 
general, covered their woolly pates with Madras handker- 
chiefs, as if ashamed to shew them, the brown officers alone 
venturing to shew their own hair. Presently a military band 
struck up with a sudden crash in the inner-room, and the large 
folding doors being thrown open, the ball-room lay be- 
fore us, in the centre of which stood the president surrounded 
by his very splendid staff, with his daughter on his arm. He 
was dressed in a plain blue uniform, with gold epaulets, and 
acquitted himself extremely well, conversing freely on Euro- 
pean politics, and giving his remarks with great shrewdness, 
and a very peculiar naivete. As for his daughter, however, 
much she might appear to have been overdressed in the morn- 
ing, she was now simple in her attire as a little shepherdess — 
a plain, white muslin frock, white sash, white shoes, white 
gloves, pearl ear-rings and necklace, and a simple, but most 
beautiful, Camilla japonica in her hair. Dancing now com- 
menced, and all that I shall say is, that before I had been an 
hour in the room, I had forgotten whether the faces around 
me were black, brown, or white; every thing was conducted 
with such decorum. However, I could see that the fine jet was 
not altogether the approved style of beauty, and that many a* 
very handsome woolly-headed belle was destined to ornament 
the walls, until a few of the young white merchants made a 
dash amongst them, more for the fun of the thing, as it struck 
me, than any thing else, which piqued some of the brown offi- 
cers, and for the rest of the evening blachee had it hollow. 
And there was friend Aaron waltzing with a very splendid 
woman, elegantly dressed, but black as a coal, with long kid 
gloves, between which and the sleeve of her gown, a space of 
two inches of the black skin, like an ebony armlet, was visible ; 
while her white dress, and rich white satin hat, and a lofty 
plume of feathers, with a pearl necklace and diamond ear- 
rings, set off her loveliness most conspicuously. At every 
wheel round Mr Bang slewed his head a little on one side, and 
peeped in at one of her bright eyes, and then tossing his 
cranium on t’other side, took a squint in at the other, and then 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


421 


cast his eyes towards the roof, and muttered with his lips as 
if he had been shot all of a heap by the blind boy’s butt-shaft ; 
but every now and then as we passed, the rogue would stick 
his tongue in his cheek, yet so slightly as to be perceptible to 
no one but myself. After this heat, Massa Aaron and myself 
were perambulating the ball-room, quite satisfied with our own 
prowess, and I was churming to myself, “ Voulez vous dansez, 
mademoiselle ” — “ De tout man coeur” said a buxom brown 
dame, about eighteen stone by the coffee-mill in St James’s 
Street. The devil Aaron gave me a look that I swore I would 
pay him for, the villain, as the extensive mademoiselle, suit- 
ing the action to the word, started up, and hooked on, and as 
a cotillon had been called, there I was figuring away most em- 
phatically, to Bang and Transom’s great entertainment. At 
length the dance was at an end, and a waltz was once more 
called, and having done my duty, I thought I might slip out 
between the acts ; so I offered to hand my solid armful to her 
seat — “ Certainement vous pouvez bien restez encore un mo- 
ment .” The devil confound you and Aaron Bang, thought I 
— but waltz I must, and away we whirled until the room spun 
round faster than we did, and when I was at length emanci- 
pated, my dark fair and fat one whispered, in a regular die- 
away, “ J’espere vous re voir bientot .” All this while there was 
a heavy firing of champagne and other corks, and the fun 
grew so fast and furious, that I remembered very little more 
of the matter, until the morning breeze whistled through my 
muslin curtains, or musquito net, about noon on the follow- 
ing day. 

I arose, and found mine host setting out to bathe at 
Madame Le Clerc’s bath, at Marquesan. I rode with him ; and 
after a cool dip we breakfasted with President Petion at his 
country-house there, and. met with great kindness. About the 
house itself there was nothing particularly to distinguish it 
from many others in the neighbourhood; but the little statues, 
and fragments of marble steps, and detached portions of old- 
fashioned wrought-iron railing, which had been grouped to- 
gether, so as to form an ornamental terrace below it, facing 
the sea, shewed that it had been a compilation from the ruins 
of the houses of the rich Trench planters, which were now 
blackening in the sun on the plain of Leogane. A couple of 
Buenos Ayrean privateers were riding at anchor in the bight 
just below the windows, manned, as I afterwards found, by 
Americans. The president, in his quiet way, after contem- 
plating them through his glass, said, “ Ces pavilions sont bien 
neuf” 

The next morning, as we were pulling in my gig, no less a 


422 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


man than Massa Aaron steering, to board the Arethusa, one 
of the merchantmen lying at anchor off the town, we were 
nearly run down by getting athwart the bows of an American 
schooner standing in for the port. As it was, her cutwater 
gave us so sipart a crack that I thought we were done for; but 
our Palinurus, finding he could not clear her, with his inher- 
ent self-possession put his helm to port, and kept away on the 
same course as the schooner, so that we got off with the loss of 
our tw’o larboard oars, which were snapped off like parsnips, 
and a good heavy bump that nearly drove us into staves. 

“ Never mind, my dear sir, never mind,” said I; “ but here- 
after listen to the old song — 

* Steer clear of tlie stem of a sailing ship.’ ” 

Massa Aaron was down on me like lightning — 

“ Or the stern of a kicking horse, Tom.” 

While I continued — 

“ ‘ Or you a wet jacket may catch, and a dip . ’ ” 

He again cleverly clipped the word out of my mouth — 

“ Or a kick on the croup, which is worse, Tom.” 

“ Why, my dear sir, you are an improvisator e of the first 
quality.” 

We rowed ashore, and nothing particular happened that 

day, until we sat down to dinner at Mr S ’s. We had a 

very agreeable party. Captain Transom and Mr. Bang were, 
as usual, the life of the company; and it was verging towards 
eight o’clock in the evening, when an English sailor, appar- 
ently belonging to the merchant service, came into the piazza, 
and planted himself opposite to the window where I sat. 

He made various nautical salaams, until he had attracted 

my attention. “ Excuse me,” I said to Mr S , “ there is 

some one in the piazza wanting me.” I rose. 

“Are you Captain Transom?” said the man. 

“No, I am not. There is the captain; do you want him?” 

“ If you please, sir,” said the man. 

I called my superior officer into the dark piazza. 

“ Well, my man,” said Transom, “ what want you with 
me? ” 

“ I am sent, sir, to you from the captain of the Haytian 

ship, the E , to request a visit from you, and to ask for a 

prayerbook.” 

“ A what? ” said Transom. 

“A prayerbook, sir. I suppose you know that he and the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 423 

captain of that other Ilaytian ship, the P , are condemned 

to be shot to-morrow morning.” 

“I know nothing of all this,” said Transom. “Do you. 
Cringle ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said I. 

“ Then let us adjourn to the dining-room again ; or, stop, 
ask Mr S and Mr Bang to step here for a moment.” 

They appeared; and when Transom exclaimed the affair, so 

far as consisted with his knowledge, Mr S told us that the 

two unfortunates in question were, one of them, a Guernsey 
man, and the other a man of colour, a native of St Vincent’s, 
whom the president had promoted to the command of two 
Haytian ships that had been employed in carrying coffee to 
England; but on their last return voyage, they had intro- 
duced a quantity of base Birmingham coin into the republic; 
which fact having been proved on their trial, they had been 
convicted of treason against the state, condemned, and were 
now under sentence of death; and the government being 
purely military, they were to be shot to-morrow morning. A 
boat was immediately sent on board, the messenger returned 
with a prayerbook; and we prepared to visit the miserable 
men. 

Mr Bang insisted on joining us — ever first where misery 
was to be relieved — and we proceeded towards the prison. Fol- 
lowing the sailor, who was the mate of one of the ships, pres- 
ently we arrived before the door of the place where the unfor- 
tunate men were confined. We were speedily admitted; but 
the building had none of the common appurtenances of a 
prison. There were neither long galleries, nor strong iron- 
bound and clamped doors, to pass through; nor jailers with 
rusty keys jingling; nor fetters clanking; for we had not made 
two steps past the black grenadiers who guarded the door, 
when a sergeant shewed us into a long ill-lighted room, about 
thirty feet by twelve — in truth, it was more like a gallery than 
a room — with the windows into the street open, and no pre- 
cautions taken, apparently at least, to prevent the escape of 
the condemned. In truth, if they had broken forth, I imagine 
the kindhearted president would not have made any very seri- 
ous inquiry as to the ho w. 

There was a small rickety old card-table, covered with tat- 
tered green cloth, standing in the middle of the floor, which 
was composed of dirty unpolished pitch pine planks, and on 
this table glimmered two brown wax candles, in old-fashioned 
brass candlesticks. Between us and the table, forming a sort 
of line across the floor, stood four black soldiers, with their 
muskets at their shoulders, while beyond them sat, in old- 


4 2 4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


fashioned arm-chairs, three figures, whose appearance I never 
can forget. 

The man fronting us rose on our entrance. He was an un- 
commonly handsome elderly personage ; his age I should guess 
to have been about fifty. He was dressed in white trowsers 
and shirt, and wore no coat; his head was very bald, but he 
had large and very dark whiskers and eyebrows, above which 
towered a most splendid forehead, white, massive, and spread- 
ing. His eyes were deep-set and sparkling, but he was pale, 
very pale, and his fine features were sharp and pinched. He 
sat with his hands clasped together, and resting on the table, 
his fingers twitching to and fro convulsively, while his under 
jaw had dropped a little, and from the constant motion of his 
head, and the heaving of his chest, it was clear that he was 
breathing quick and painfully. 

The figure on his right hand was altogether a more vulgar- 
looking personage. He was a man of colour, his caste being 
indicated by his short curly black hair, and his African de- 
scent vouched for by his obtuse features ; but he was composed 
and steady in his bearing. He was dressed in white trowsers 
and waistcoat, and a blue surtout; and on our entrance he 
rose, and remained standing. But the person on the elder 
prisoner’s left hand riveted my attention more than either of 
the other two. She was a respectable-looking, little, thin 
woman, but dressed with great neatness, in a plain black silk 
gown. Her sharp features w r ere high and well formed; her 
eyes and mouth were not particularly noticeable, but her hair 
was most beautiful — her long shining auburn hair — although 
she must have been forty years of age, and her skin was like 
the driven snow. When we entered, she was seated on the left 
hand of the eldest prisoner, and was lying back on her chair, 
with her arms crossed on her bosom, her eyes wide open, and 
staring upwards towards the roof, with the tears coursing each 
other down over her cheeks, while her lower jaw had fallen 
down, as if she had been dead — her breathing was scarcely 
perceptible — her bosom remaining still as a frozen sea, for the 
space of a minute, when she would draw a long breath, with 
a low moaning noise, to which succeeded a convulsive crowing 
gasp, like a child in the hooping-cough, and all would be still 
again. 

At length Captain Transom addressed the elder prisoner. 
“You have sent for us, Mr * * *; what can we do for you — 
in accordance with our duty as English officers ? ” 

The poor man looked at us with a vacant stare — but his fel- 
low-sufferer instantly spoke. “ Gentlemen, this is kind — very 
kind. I sent my mate to borrow a prayerbook from you, for 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


425 


our consolation now must flow from above — man cannot com- 
fort us.” 

The female, who was the elder prisoner’s wife, suddenly- 
leant forward in her chair, and peered intently into Mr Bang’s 
face — “ Prayerbook,” said she — “ prayerbook — why, I have a 
prayerbook — I will go for my prayerbook” — and she rose 
quickly from her seat. 

“ Restez ” — quoth the black sergeant — the word seemed to 
rouse her — she laid her head on her hands, on the table, and 
sobbed out as if her heart were bursting — “ O God ! O God ! is 
it come to this — is it come to this ? ” the frail table trembling 
beneath her, with her heart-crushing emotion. His wife’s 
misery now seemed to recall the elder prisoner to himself. He 
made a strong effort, and in a great degree recovered his com- 
posure. 

“ Captain Transom,” said he, “ I believe you know our 
story. That we have been justly condemned, I admit, but it is 
a fearful thing to die, captain, in a strange country, and by 

the hands of these barbarians, and to leave my own dear ” 

Here his voice altogether failed him — presently he resumed. 
“ The Government have sealed up my papers and packages, 
and I have neither Bible nor prayerbook — will you spare us 
the use of one, or both, for this night, sir ? ” 

The captain said he had brought a prayerbook, and did all 
he could to comfort the poor fellows. But alas! their grief 
“ knew not consolation’s name.” 

Captain Transom read prayers, which were listened to by 
both of the miserable men with the greatest devotion, but all 
the while, the poor woman never moved a muscle, every fac- 
ulty appearing to be once more frozen up by grief and misery. 
At length, the elder prisoner again spoke, “I know I have no 
claim on you, gentlemen; but I am an Englishman — at least 
I hope I may call myself an Englishman, and my wife there 
is an Englishwoman — when I am gone — oh, gentlemen, what 
is to become of her? — If I were but sure that she would be 
cared for and enabled to return to her friends, the bitterness 
of death would be past.” Here the poor woman threw herself 
round her husband’s neck, and gave a shrill sharp cry, and re- 
laxing her hold, fell down across his knees, with her head 
hanging back, and her face towards the roof, in a dead faint. 
For a minute or two, the husband’s sole concern seemed to be 
the condition of his wife. 

il I will undertake that she shall be sent safe to England, my 
good man,” said Mr Bang. 

The felon looked at him — drew one hand across his eyes, 
which were misty with tears, held down his head, and again 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


426 

looked up — at length he found his tongue. u That God who 
rewardeth good deeds here, that God whom I have offended, 
before whom I must answer for my sins by day-break to-mor- 
row, will reward you — I can only thank you.” He seized Mr 
Bang’s hand and kissed it. 

With heavy hearts we left the miserable group, and I may 
mention here, that Mr Bang was as good as his word, and paid 
the poor woman’s passage home, and, so far as I know, she is 
now restored to her family. 

We slept that night at Mr S ’s, and as the morning 

dawned we mounted our horses, which our worthy host had 
kindly desired to be ready, in order to enable us to take our 
exercise in the cool of the morning. As we rode past the Place 
d’Armes, or open space in front of the president’s palace, we 
heard sonuds of military music, and asked the first chance 
passenger what was going on. “ Execution militaire ; or 
rather,” said the man, “ the two sea captains, who introduced 
the base money, are to be shot this morning — there against the 
rampart.” Of the fact we were aware, but we did not dream 
that we had ridden so near the whereabouts. 

“ Ay, indeed ? ” said Mr. Bang. He looked towards the cap- 
tain. “ My dear Transom, I have no wish to witness so horri- 
ble a sight, but still — what say you — shall we pull up, or ride 
on?” 

The truth was, that Captain Transom and myself were both 
of us desirous of seeing the execution — from what impelling 
motive, let learned blockheads, who have never gloated over a 
hanging, determine; and quickly it was determined that we 
should wait and witness it. 

First advanced a whole regiment of the president’s guards, 
then a battalion of infantry of the line, close to which fol- 
lowed a whole bevy of priests clad in white, which contrasted 
conspicuously with their brown and black faces. After them 
marched two firing parties of twelve men each, drafted indis- 
criminately, as it would appear, from the whole garrison ; for 
the grenadier pap was there intermingled with the glazed 
shako of the battalion company, and the light morion of the 
dismounted dragoon. Then came the prisoners. The elder 
culprit respectably clothed in a white shirt, waistcoat, and 
trowsers, and blue coat, with an Indian silk yellow handker- 
chief bound round his head. His lips were compressed to- 
gether with an unnatural firmness, and his features were 
sharpened like those of a corpse. His complexion was ashy 
blue. His eyes were half shut, but every now and then he 
opened them wide, and gave a startling rapid glance about 
him, and occasionally he staggered a little in his gait. As ho 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


427 


approached the place of execution, his eyelids fell, his under- 
jaw dropped, his arms hung dangling by his side like empty 
sleeves ; still he walked on, mechanically keeping time, like ail 
automaton, to the measured tread of the soldiery. His fellow- 
sufferer followed him. His eye was bright, his complexion 
healthy, his step firm, and he immediately recognized us in the 
throng, made a bow to Captain Transom, and held out his 
hand to Mr. Rang, who was nearest to him, and shook it cor- 
dially. The procession moved on. The troops formed into 
three sides of a square, the remaining one being the earthen 
mound, that constituted the rampart of the place. A halt was 
called. The two firing parties advanced to the sound of muffled 
drums, and having arrived at the crest of the glacis, right over 
the counterscarp, they halted on what, in a more regular forti- 
fication, would have been termed the covered way. The pris- 
oners, perfectly unfettered, advanced between them, stepped 
down with a firm step into the ditch, led each by a grenadier. 
In the centre of it they turned and kneeled, neither of their 
eyes being bound. A priest advanced, and seemed to pray 
with the brown man fervently; another offered spiritual con- 
solation to the Englishman, who seemed now to have rallied 
his torpid faculties, but he waved him away impatiently, and 
taking a book from his bosom, seemed to repeat a prayer from 
it with great fervour. At this very instant of time, Mr Bang 
caught his eye. He dropped the book on the ground, placed 
one hand on his heart, while he pointed upwards towards 
heaven with the other, calling out in a loud clear voice, “ Re- 
member ! ” Aaron bowed. A mounted officer now rode quickly 
up to the brink of the ditch, and called out, “ Depechez” 

The priests left the miserable men, and all was still as d^ath 
for a minute. A low solitary tap of the drum — the firing par- 
ties came to the recover, and presently taking the time from 
the sword of the staff-officer who had spoken, came down to the 
present, and fired a rattling, straggling volley. The brown 
man sprang up into the air three or four feet, and fell dead; 
he had been shot through the heart; but the white man was 
only wounded, and had fallen, writhing, and struggling, and 
shrieking, to the ground. I heard him distinctly call out, as 
the reserve of six men stepped into the ditch, “ Dans la tele , 
dans la tele.” One of the grenadiers advanced, and, putting 
his musket close to his face, fired. The ball splashed into his 
skull, through the left eye, setting fire to his hair and clothes, 
and the handkerchief bound round his head, and making the 
brains and blood flash up all over his face, and the person of 
the soldier who had given him the coup de grace. 

A strong murmuring noise, like the rushing of many 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


428 

waters, growled amongst the ranks and the surrounding spec- 
tators, while a short sharp exclamation of horror every now 
and then gushed out shrill and clear, and fearfully distinct 
above the appalling monotony. 

The miserable man stretched out his legs and arms straight 
* and rigidly, a strong shiver pervaded his whole frame, his 
jaw fell, his muscles relaxed, and he and his brother in ca- 
lamity became a portion of the bloody clay on which they were 
stretched. 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE THIRD CRUISE OF THE WAVE 

“ Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean— roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain : 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore,— upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 

Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and unknown.” 

Childe Harold . 

I had been invited to breakfast on board the corvette, on the 
morning after this; and Captain Transom, Mr Bang, and my- 
self, "were comfortably seated at our meal, on the quarterdeck, 
under the awning, skreened off by flags from the view of the 
men. The ship was riding to a small westerly breeze, that 
was rippling up the bight. The ports on each quarter, as well 
as the two in the stern, were open, through which we had an 
extensive view of Port-au-Prince, and the surrounding coun- 
try. 

“ Now, Transom,” said our amigo Massa Aaron, “ I am 
quite persuaded that the town astern of us there must always 
have been, and is now, exceedingly unhealthy. Only reflect on 
its situation ; it fronts the west, with the hot sickening after- 
noon’s sun blazing on it every evening, along the glowing mir- 
ror of the calm bight, under whose influence the fat black mud 
that composes the beach must send up most pestilent effluvia ; 
while in the forenoon it is shut out from the influence of the 
regular easterly sea-breeze, or trade-wind, by the high land 
behind. However, as I don’t mean to stay here longer than I 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


429 


can help, it is not my affair ; and as Mr S will be waiting 

for us, pray order your carriage, my dear fellow, and let us go 
on shore.” 

- The carriage our friend spoke of, was the captain’s gig, by 
this time alongside, ready manned, — each of the six seamen 
who composed her crew, with his oar resting between his 
knees, the blade pointed upwards towards the sky. We all got 
in — “ Shove off ’’—dip fell the oars into the water — “ Give 
way, men” — the good ash staves groaned, and cheeped, and 
the water buzzed, and away we shot towards the wharf. We 

landed, and having proceeded to Mr S ’s, we found horses 

ready for us to take our promised ride into the beautiful 
plain of the Cul de Sac , lying to the northward and eastward 
of the town ; the cavalcade being led by Massa Aaron and my- 
self, while Mr S rode beside Captain Transom. 

Aforetime, from the estates situated on this most magnifi- 
cent plain, (which extends about fifteen miles into the inte- 
rior, while its width varies from ten to five miles, being sur- 
rounded by hills on three sides,) there used to be produced no 
less than thirty thousand hogsheads of sugar. This was dur- 
ing the ancien regime; whereas now, I believe, the only arti- 
cles it yields beyond plantains, yams, and pot herbs for the 
supply of the town, are a few gallons of syrup, and a few 
puncheons of tafia , a very inferior kind of rum. The whole 
extent of the sea-like plain, for there is throughout scarcely 
any inequality higher than my staff, was once covered with 
well-cultivated fields and happy homes; but now, alas! with 
brushwood from six to ten feet high, — in truth, by one sea of 
jungle, through which you have to thread your difficult way 
along narrow, hot, sandy bridle-paths, (with the sand flies and 
musquitoes flaying you alive,) which every now and then lead 
you to some old ruinous court-yard, with the ground strewed 
with broken boilers and mill-rollers, and decaying hard-wood 
timbers, and crumbling bricks; while, a little farther on, you 
shall find the blackened roofless walls of what was most proba- 
bly an unfortunate planter’s once happy home, where the mid- 
night brigand came and found peace and comfort, and all the 
elegancies of life, and left — blood and ashes; with the wild- 
flowers growing on the window sills, and the prickly pear on 
the tops of the walls, while marble steps, and old shutters, and 
window hinges, and pieces of china, are strewn all about; the 
only tenant now being most likelv an old miserable negro who 
has sheltered himself in a coarsely thatched hut, in a corner of 
what had once been a gay and well-furnished saloon.. 

After having extended our ride, under a hot broiling sun, 
until two o’clock in the afternoon, we hove about, and re- 


43 ° 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


turned towards the town. We had not ridden on our home- 
ward journey above three miles, when we overtook a tall good- 
looking negro, dressed in white Osnaburg trowsers, rolled up 
to his knees, and a check shirt. He wore neither shoes nor 
stockings, but his head was bound round with the usual hand- 
kerchief, over which he wore a large glazed cocked hat, with a 
most conspicuous Haytian blue-and-red cockade. He was 
goading on a jackass before him, loaded with a goodly burden 
apparently ; but what it was we could not tell, as the whole was 
covered by a large sheepskin, with the wool outermost. I was 

pricking past the man, when Mr S sung out to me to 

shorten sail, and the next moment he startled me by address- 
ing the pedestrian as Colonel Gabaroche. The colonel re- 
turned the salute, and seemed in no way put out from being 
detected in this rather unmilitary predicament. He was 
going up to Port-au-Prince to take his turn of duty with his 
regiment. Presently up came another half-naked black fel- 
low, with the same kind of glazed hat and handkerchief under 
it ; but he was mounted, and his nag was not a bad one by any 
means. It was Colonel Gabaroche’s Captain of Grenadiers, 
Papotiere by name. He was introduced to us, and we all 
moved jabbering along. At the time I write of, the military 
force of the Haytian Republic was composed of one-third of 
the whole male population capable of bearing arms, which 
third was obliged to be on permanent duty for four months 
every year; but the individuals of the quota were allowed to 
follow their callings as merchants, planters, or agriculturists, 
during the remaining eight months; they were, I believe, fed 
by Government during their four months of permanent duty. 
The weather, by the time we had ridden a couple of miles far- 
ther, began to lower, and presently, large heavy drops of rain 
fell, and preserving their globular shape, rolled like peas, or 
rather like bullets, amidst the small finely pulverized dust of 
the sandy path. “ Umbrella ” was the word — but this was a 
luxury unknown to our military friends. However, the colonel 
immediately unfurled a blanket from beneath the sheepskin, 
and sticking his head through a hole in the centre of it, there 
he stalked like a herald in his tabard, with the blanket hang- 
ing down before and behind him. As for the captain he dis- 
mounted, disencumbered himself of his trowsers, which he 
crammed under the mat that served him for a saddle, and 
taking off his shirt, he stowed it away in the capacious crown 
of his cocked hat, while he once more bestrid his Bucephalus 
in pnris naturalibus, but conversing with all the ease in the 
world, and the most perfect sang froid, while the thunder 
shower came down in bucketsful. In about half an hour, we 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


431 


arrived at the skirt of the brushwood or jungle, and found on 
our left hand some rice fields, which from appearance we 
could not have distinguished from young wheat; but on a 
nearer approach, we perceived that the soil, if soil it could be 
called, on which there was no walking, was a soft mud, the 
only passages through the fields, and along the ridges, being 
by planks, on which several of the labourers were standing as 
we passed, one of whom turning to look at us, slipped off, and 
instantly sunk amidst the rotten slime 'up to his waist. The 
neighbourhood of these rice swamps is generally extremely 
unhealthy. At length we got on board the Firebrand, 
drenched to the skin, to a late dinner, after which it was de- 
termined by Captain Transom — of which intention, by the by, 
with all his familiarity, I had not the smallest previous no- 
tice — that I should cross the island to Jacmel, in order to 
communicate with the merchant-ships loading there; and by 
the time I returned, it was supposed the Firebrand would be 
ready for sea, when I was to be detached in the Wave, to whip 
in the craft at the different outports, after which we were all 
to sail in a fleet to Port Royal. 

“ I say, skipper,” quoth Mr Bang, u I have a great mind to 
ride with Tom — what say you? ” 

“ Why, Aaron, you are using me ill ; that shaver is seduc- 
ing you altogether ; but come, you won’t be a week away, and 
if you want to go, I see no objection.” 

It was fixed accordingly, and on the morrow Mr Bang and 
I completed our arrangements, hired horses, and a guide, and 
all being in order, clothes packed, and every thing else made 

ready for the cruise, we rode out along with Mr S (we 

were to dine and sleep at his house) to view the fortifications 
on the hill above the town, the site of Christophe’s operations 
when he besieged the place; and pretty hot work they must 
have had of it, for in two different places the trenches of the 
besiegers had been pushed on to the very crest of the glacis, 
and in one the counterscarp had been fairly blown into the 
ditch, disclosing the gallery of the mine behind, as if it had 
been a cavern, the crest of the glacis having remained entire. 
We walked into it, and Mr S pointed out where the presi- 

dent’s troops, in Fort Republicain, had countermined, and ab- 
solutely entered the other chamber from beneath, after the ex- 
plosion, and, sword in hand, cut off the storming party, (which 
had by this time descended into the ditch,) and drove them up 
through the breach into the fort, where they were made pris- 
oners. 

The assault had been given three times in one night, and 
he trembled for the town; however, Petion’s courage and 


432 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


indomitable resolution saved them all. For by making a 
sally from the south gate at gray dawn, even when the firing 
on the hill was hottest, and turning the enemy’s flank, he 
poured into the trenches, routed the covering party, stormed 
the batteries, spiked the guns, and that evening’s sun glanced 
on the bayonets of King Henry’s troops as they raised the 
siege, and fell back in great confusion on their lines, leaving 
the whole of their battering train, and a great quantity of 
ammunition, behind them. 

Next morning we were called at daylight, and having ac- 
coutred ourselves for the journey, we descended and found 
two stout ponies, the biggest not fourteen hands high, ready 
saddled, with old-fashioned demipiques, and large holsters at 
each of the saddlebows. A very stout mule was furnished for 
Monsieur Pegtop; and our black guide, who had contracted 
for our transit across the island, was also in attendance, 
mounted on a very active, well-actioned horse. We had coffee, 
and started. By the time we reached Leogane, the sun was 
high and fierce. Here we breakfasted in a low one-story 

building, our host being no smaller man than Major L 

of the Fourth Regiment of the line. We got our chocolate, 
and eggs, and fricasseed fowl, and roasted yam, and in fact 
made, even according to friend Aaron’s conception of matters, 
an exceedingly comfortable breakfast. 

Mr Bang here insisted on being paymaster, and tendered 
a sum that the black major thought so extravagantly great, 
considering the entertainment we had received, that he de- 
clined taking more than one-half. However, Mr Bang, after 
several unavailing attempts to press the money on the man, 
who, by the by, was simply a good-looking blackamoor, dressed 
in a check shirt, coarse but clean white trowsers, with the 
omnipresent handkerchief bound round his head, and finding 
that he could not persist without giving offence, was about 
pocketing the same, when Pegtop audibly whispered him, 
“ Massa, you ever shee black niger refuse money before ? 
but don’t take it to heart, massa ; me, Pegtop, will pocket him, 
if dat foolis black person wont.” 

“ Thank you for nothing, Master Pegtop,” said Aaron. 

We proceeded, and rode across the beautiful plain, gradu- 
ally sloping up from the mangrove-covered beach, until it 
swelled into the first range of hills that formed the pedestal 
of the high precipitous ridge that intersected the southern 
prong of the island, winding our way through the ruins of 
sugar plantations, with fragments of the machinery and im- 
plements employed in the manufacture scattered about, and 
half sunk into the soil of the fields, which were fast becoming 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


433 


impervious jungle, and interrupting our progress along the 
narrow bridle-paths. At length we began to ascend, and the 
comparative coolness of the climate soon evinced that we 
were rapidly leaving the hot plains, as the air became purer, 
and thinner, at every turn. After a long, hot, hot ride, we 
reached the top of the ridge, and turning back had a most 
magnificent view of the whole Bight of Leogane, and of the 
Horseshoe, and Aaron’s Frog; even the tops of the moun- 
tains above the Mole, which could not have been nearer than 
seventy miles, were visible, floating like islands or blue 
clouds in the misty distance. Aaron took off his hat, reined 
up, and turning the head of his Bucephalus towards the placid 
waters he had left, stretched forth his hand — 

“ ‘ Ethereal air, and ye swift- winged winds, 

Ye rivers springing from fresh founts, ye waves 
That o’er th’ interminable ocean wreathe 
Your crisped smiles, thou all-producing Earth, 

And thee, bright Sun, I call, whose flaming orb 
Views the wide world beneath.— See 1 

“ Nearly got a stroke of the sun, Tom — what Whiffle would 
call a cul de sac — by taking off my chapeau in my poetical 
frenzy — so shove on.” 

We continued our journey through most magnificent de- 
files, and under long avenues of the most superb trees until, 
deeply embosomed in the very heart of the eternal forest, 
we came to a shady clump of bamboos, overhanging, with 
their ostrich-feather-like plumes, a round pool of water, man- 
tled or creamed over with a bright green coating, as if it had 
been vegetable velvet, but nothing akin to the noisome scum 
that ferments on a stagnant pool in England. It was about 
the time we had promised ourselves dinner, and in fact our 
black guide and Pegtop had dismounted, to make their prepa- 
rations. 

“ Why, we surely cannot dine here ? you don’t mean to 
drink of that stagnant pool, my dear sir ? ” 

“ Siste paulisper, my boy,” said Mr Bang, as he stooped 
down, and skimmed off the green covering with his hand, dis- 
closing the water below, pure and limpid as a crystal-clear 
fountain. We dined on the brink, and discussed a bottle of 
vin-de-grave a-piece, and then had a small pull at brandy and 
water; but we ate very little, — although I was very hungry, 
but Mr Bang would not let me feed largely. 

“Now, Tom, you really do not understand things. When 
one rides a goodish journey on end — say seventy miles or so — 
on the same horse, one never feeds the trusty creature with 


434 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


half a bushel of oats; at least if any wooden spoon does, the 
chances are he knocks him up. No, no — you give him a 
mouthful of corn, but plenty to drink — a little meal and 
water here, and a bottle of porter in water there, and he 
brings you in handsomely. Zounds! how would you your- 
self, Tom, like to dine on turtle-soup and venison, in the 
middle of a hissing hot ride of sixty miles, thirty of them to 
be covered after the feed ? Lord ! what between the rich food 
and the punch, you would have fermented like a brewer’s vat 
before you reached the end of the journey; and if you had 
not a boll imperial measure of carbonate of soda with you, 
the chances are you would explode like a catamaran, your 
head flying through some old woman’s window, and capsizing 
her teapot on the one hand, while on the other your four 
quarters are scattered north, south, east, and west. But 
Gaudeamus , — sweet is pleasure after pain, Tom, and all you 
sailors and tailors — I love to class you together — are tender 
— not hearted — creatures. Strange now that there should 
be three classes of his Majesty’s subjects, who never can be 
taught to ride, — to whom riding is, in fact, a physical im- 
possibility; and these three are the aforesaid sailors, and 
tailors, and dragoon officers. However, hand me the brandy 
bottle; and, Pegtop, spare me that black jack that you are 
rinsing — so. Useful commodity a cup of this kind ” — here 
our friend dashed in a large qualifier of cognac — “ it not 
only conceals the quality of the water, for you can sometimes 
perceive the animalcule hereabouts without a microscope, 
but also the strength of the libation. So — a piece of biscuit 
now, and the smallest morsel of that cold tongue — your 
health, Thomas ” — a long pull — “ speedy promotion to you, 
Thomas.” Here our friend rested the jug on his knee. “ Were 
you ever at a Gaudeamus of Presbyterian clergymen on the 
Monday after the Sacrament Sunday, Tom, — that is, at the 
dinner at the manse ? ” 

“ No, my dear sir; you know I am an Episcopalian.” 

“ And I am a Roman Catholic. What then ? I have been 
at a Gaudeamus , and why might not you have been at one 
too ? Oh, the fun of such a meeting ! the feast of reason and 
the flow of Ferintosh, and the rich stories, ay, fatter than 
even I would venture on, and the cricket-like chirps of laugh- 
ter of the probationer, and the loud independent guffaw of 
the placed minister, and the sly innuendos, when our freens 
get half foo. Oh, how I honour a Gaudeamus! And why,” 
he continued, “ should the excellent men not rejoice, Tom ? 
Are they not the very men who should be happy ? Is a minis- 
ter to be for ever boxed up in his pulpit — for ever to be wag- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


435 

ging his pow, bald, black, or grizzled, as it may be, beneath 
bis sounding-board, like a bullfrog below a toadstool? And, 
like the aforesaid respectable quadruped or biped, (it has al- 
ways puzzled me which to call it,) is he never to drink any 
thing stronger than water ? ‘ Hath not a minister eyes ? hath 
not a minister hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, 
passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same 
weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same 
means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, 
that another man is? If you prick them, do they not bleed? 
If you tickle them do they not laugh ? ? And shall we grudge 
them a Gaudeamus now and then? Shall opera peracta lu- 
demus be in the mouths of all mankind, from the dirty little 
greasy-faced schoolboy, who wears a red gown, and learns the 
Humanities and Whiggery in the Nineveh of the West, as the 
Bailie glories to call it, to the King upon his throne, and 
a dead letter, as well as a dead language, to them, and them 
only? Forbid it, the Honourable the Lord Provost — forbid it, 
the Honourable the Lord Provost and all the Bailies — forbid 
it, the Honourable the Lord Provost and all the Bailies, and 
those who sit in Council with them! Forbid it, the whole 
august aggregate of terror to evil-doers, and praise of them 
who do well ! Forbid it, the Devil and Dr Faustus! ” 

By this time I had smuggled the jug out of our amigo's 
claw, and had done honour to his pledge. “ Do you know, 
my dear Mr Bang, I have always been surprised that a man 
of your strong intellect, and clear views of most matters, 
should continue, in profession at least, a Roman Catholic ? ” 
Aaron looked at me with a seriousness, an unaffected se- 
riousness in his manner, that possessed me with the notion 
that I had taken an unwarrantable liberty. “ Profession,” 
at length said he, slowly deliberately, apparently weigh- 
ing every word carefully as it fell from him, as one is apt to 
do when approaching an interesting subject, on which you 
have you to assume this of me or any man, that my mode 
of faith is but profession ? ” and then the kind-hearted fellow, 
perceiving that his rebuke had mortified me, altering his 
tone, continued, but still with a strong tinge of melancholy 
in his manner — “ Alas ! Tom, how often will weak man, in 
his great arrogance, assume the prerogative of his Maker, and 
attempt to judge — honestly, we will even allow, according to 
his conception — of the heart and secret things of another, but 
too often, in reality, by the evil scale of the own ! Shall the 
potsherd say to his frail fellow, ‘ Thou art weak, but I am 
strong V Shall the moudiewort say to his brother mole — (I 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


436 

say, Quashie, mind that mule of yours don’t snort in the 
water, will ye?) — * Blind art thou, but lo, I see? ’ Ah, Tom, 
I am a Roman Catholic! but is it thou who shalt venture 
down into the depths of my heart, and then say, whether I be 
so in profession only, or in stern, unswerving sincerity ? ” 

I found I had unwittingly touched a string that vibrated 
to his heart. 

“lama Roman Catholic, but, I humbly trust, not a big- 
oted one; for were it not against the canons of both our 
churches, I fear I should incline to the doctrine of Pope — 

‘ He can’t be wrong whose life is in the right.’ 


My fathers, Tom, were all Catholics before me; they may 
have been wrong; but I am only my father’s son, — not a bet- 
ter, and, I fear, I fear, not so wise a man. — Pray, Tom, did 
you ever hear of even a good Jew, who, being converted, did 
not become a bad Christian ? Have you not all your life had 
a repugnance to consort with a sinner converted from the 
faith of his fathers, whether they were Jews or Gentiles, Hin- 
doos or Mahomedans, dwellers in Mesopotamia, or beyond 
Jordan? You have such a repugnance, Tom, I know; and I 
have it too.” 

“ Well,” I proceeded, on the strength of the brandy grog, 
“ in the case of an unenlightened, or ignorant, or half-edu- 
cated man, I might, indeed, suspect duplicity, or even hy- 
pocrisy, at the bottom of the abjuration of his father’s creed; 
but in a gentleman of your acquirements and knowledge ” 

“ There again now, Cringle, you are wrong. The clod- 
hopper might be conscientious in a change of creed; but as 
to the advantage I have over him from superior knowledge! 
Knowledge, Tom! what do I know — what does the great- 
est and the best of us know — to venture on a saying some- 
what of the tritest — but that he knows nothing? Oh, my 
dear boy, you and I have hitherto consorted together on the 
deck of life, so to speak, with the bright joyous sun sparkling, 
and the blue heavens laughing overhead, and the clear green 
sea dancing under foot, and the merry breeze buzzing past us 
right cheerily. We have seen but the fair weather side of 
each other, Thomas, without considering that all men have 
their deep feelings, that lie far, far down in the hold of their 
hearts, were they but stirred up. Ay, you smile at my fig- 
ures, but I repeat it — in the deep hold of their hearts; and 
may I not follow out the image with verity and modesty, and 
say that those feelings, often too deep for tears, are the bal- 
last that keeps the whole ship in trim, and without which we 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


437 


should be every hour of our existence liable to be driven out 
of our heavenward course, yea, to broach to, and founder, 
and sink for ever, under one of the many squalls in this 
world of storms? And here, in this most beautiful spot, with 
the deep, dark, crystal clear pool at our feet, fringed with 
that velvet grass, and the green quivering leaf above, flicker- 
ing between us and the bright blue cloudless sky, — and the 
everlasting rocks, with those diamond-like tears tri elding down 
their rugged cheeks impending over us, — and those gigantic 
gnarled trees, with their tracery of black withes fantastically 
tangled, whose naked roots twist and twine amongst the fis- 
sures, like serpents trying to shelter themselves from the 
scorching rays of the vertical sun, — and those feather-like 
bamboos high arching overhead, and screening us under their 
noble canopy, — and the cool plantains, their broad ragged 
leaves bending under the weight of dew-spangles, and the 
half-opened wild-flowers, — yea, even here, the ardent noon- 
tide sleeping on the hill, when even the quick-eyed lizard lies 
still, and no longer rustles through the dry grass, and there 
is not a breath of air strong enough out of heaven to stir the 
gossamer that floats before us, or to wave that wild-flower on 
its hair-like stem, or to ruffle the fairy plumage of the hum- 
ming-bird, which, against the custom of its kind, is now 
quietly perched thereon ; and while the bills of the chattering 
paroquets, that are peering at us from the branches above, are 
closed, and the woodpecker interrupts his tapping to look 
down upon us, and the only sound we hear is the moaning 
of the wood-pigeon, and the lulling buzz of myriads of happy 
insects booming on the ear, loud as the rushing of a distant 
waterfall — (Confound these musquitoes, though!) Even 
here, on this 

‘So sweet a spot of earth, yon might, I ween t 

Have guess’d some congregation of the elves, 

To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.” — 

Even in such a place could I look forward without a shudder, 
to set up my everlasting rest, to lay my weary bones in the 
earth, and to mingle my clay with that whereout it was 
moulded. No fear of being houcked here, Thomas, and pre- 
served in a glass case, like a stuffed woodcock, in Surgeon’s 
Hall. I am a barbarian, Tom, in these respects — I am a 
barbarian, and nothing of a philosopher. Quiero Paz is to 
be my epitaph. Quiero Paz — 1 Cursed be he who stirs these 
bones.’ Did not even Shakespeare write it? What poetry in 
this spot, Thomas ! Oh, 


43 8 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


k There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, aud music in its roar : 

1 love not man the less, but nature more. 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.' 

Yes, even here where nature is all beautiful and every thing , 
and man abject and nothing — even here, Tom, amidst the 
loneliness of earth, rugged and half-mad as you must some- 
times have thought me, a fellow wholly made up of quips 
and jests, — even I at this moment could, like an aboriginal 
Charib of the land, ‘ lift up my voice to the Great Spirit/ 
and kneel, and weep, and pray.” 

I was much moved. 

“ You have spoken of knowledge, Tom. Knowledge — what 
do I know? Of myself I know as little as I do of any other 
grub that crawls on the surface of this world of sin and suf- 
fering; and what I do know, adds little to my self-esteem, 
Tom, and affords small encouragement to inquire farther. — 
Knowledge, say you? How is that particle of sand here? I 
cannot tell. How grew that blade of grass? I do not know. 
Even when I look into that jug of brandy grog, (I’ll trouble 
you for it, Thomas,) all that I know is, that if I drink it, it 
will make me drunk, and a more desperately wicked creature, 
if that were possible, than I am already. And when I look 
forth on the higher and more noble objects of the visible crea- 
tion, abroad on this beautiful earth, above on the glorious 
universe studded with shining orbs, without number num- 
berless, what can I make of them ? Nothing — absolutely 
nothing — yet they are all creatures like myself. But if I try 
— audaciously try — to strain my finite faculties, in the futile 
attempt to take in what is infinite — if I aspiringly, but hope- 
lessly, grapple with the idea of the immensity of space, for 
instance, which my reason yet tells me must of necessity be 
boundless — do I not fall fluttering to the earth again, like 
an owl flying against the noontide sun ? Again, when I ven- 
ture to think of eternity — ay, when, reptile as I feel myself 
to be, I even look up towards heaven, and bend my erring 
thoughts towards the Most High, the Maker of all things, 
who was, and is, and is to come; whose flaming minister, even 
while I speak, is pouring down a flood of intolerable day on 
one half of the dry earth, and all that therein is; and when I 
reflect on what this tremendous, this inscrutable Being has 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


439 


done for me and my sinful race, so beautifully shewn forth 
in both our creeds, what do 1 know f but that I am a poor 
miserable worm, crushed before the moth, whose only song 
should be the miserere , whose only prayer 1 God be merciful 
to me a sinner ! y ” 

There was a long pause, and I began to fear that my friend 
was shaken in his mind, for he continued to look steadfastly 
into the clear black water, where he had skimmed off the 
green velvet coating with his stick. 

Ay, and is it even so? and is it Tom Cringle who thinks 
and says that I am a man likely to profess to believe what 
he knows in his heart to be a lie. A Roman Catholic! Had 
I lived before the Roman Conquest I would have been a 
Druid, for it is not under the echoing domes of our magnificent 
cathedrals, with all the grandeur of our ritual, the flaming 
tapers, and bands of choristers, and the pealing organ, and 
smoking censers, and silver-toned bells, and white-robed 
priests, that the depths of my heart are stirred up. It is here, 
and not in a temple made with hands, however gorgeous — 
here, in the secret places of the everlasting forest, — it is in 
such a place as this that I feel the immortal spark within me 
kindling into a flame, and wavering up heavenward. I am 
superstitious, Thomas, I am superstitious, when left alone in 
such a scene as this. I can walk through a country church- 
yard at midnight, and stumble amongst the rank grass that 
covers the graves of those I have lived with and loved, even 
if they be i green in death, and festering in their shrouds/ 
with the wind moaning amongst the stunted yew-trees, and 
the rain splashing and scattering on the moss-covered tomb- 
stones, and the blinding blue lightning flashing, while the 
headstones glance like an array of sheeted ghosts, and the 
thunder is grumbling overhead, without a qualm — direness 
of this kind cannot once daunt me; — it is here and now, 
when all nature sleeps in the ardent noontide, that I become 
superstitious, and would not willingly be left alone. Thoughts 
too deep for tears! — ay, indeed, and there be such thoughts, 
that, long after time has allowed them to subside, and when, 
to the cold eye of the world, all is clear and smooth above, 
will, when stirred up, like the sediment of this fountain of 
the wood, discolour and imbitter the whole stream of life 
once more, even after the lapse of long long years. When my 
heart-crushing loss was recent — when the wound was green, I 
could not walk abroad at this to me witching time of day, 
without a stock or a stone, a distant mark on the hillside, or 
the outline of the gray cliff above, taking the very fashion 
of her face, or figure, on which I would gaze, and gaze, as if 


440 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


spell-bound, until I knew not whether to call it a grouping 
of the imagination, or a reality from without — of her with 
whom I fondly hoped to have travelled the weary road of life. 
Friends approved — fortune smiled — one little month, and we 
should have been one; but it pleased Him, to whom in my 
present frame of mind I dare not look up, to blight my beau- 
tiful flower, to canker my rose-bud, to change the fair coun- 
tenance of my Elizabeth, and send her away. She drooped 
and died, even like that pale flower under the scorching sun; 
and I was driven forth to worship Mammon, in these swel- 
tering climes; but the sting remains, the barbed arrow sticks 
fast.” 

Here the cleared surface of the water, into which he was 
steadfastly looking, was gradually contracted to a small 
round spot about a foot in diameter, by the settling back of 
the green floating matter that he had skimmed aside. His 
countenance became very pale ; he appeared even more excited 
than he had hitherto been. 

“ By heavens ! look in that water, if the green covering of 
it has not arranged itself round the clear spot into the shape 
of a medallion — into her features! I had dreamed of such 
things before, but now it is a palpable reality — it is her face — 
her straight nose — her Grecian upper lip — her beautiful fore- 
head, and her very bust ! — even, 

4 As when years apace 

Had bound her lovely waist with woman’s zone.* 

Oh, Elizabeth — Elizabeth ! ” 

Here his whole frame shook with the most intense emo- 
tion, but at length tears, unwonted tears, did come to his re- 
lief, and he hid his face in his hands and wept bitterly. I 
was now convinced he was mad, but I durst not interrupt 
him. At length he slowly removed his hands, by which time, 
however, a beautiful small black diver, the most minute spe- 
cies of duck that I ever saw — it was not so big as my fist — 
but which is common in woodland ponds in the West Indies, 
had risen in the centre of the eye of the fountain, while all 
was so still that it floated quietly like a leaf on the water, 
apparently without the least fear of us. 

“ The devil appeared in Paradise under the shape of a cor- 
morant,” said Mr Bang, half angrily, as he gazed sternly at 
the unlooked-for visiter ; “ what imp art thou ? ” 

Tip — the little fellow dived; presently it rose again in the 
same place, and lifting up its little foot, scratched the side 
of its tiny yellow bill and little red-spotted head, shook its 
small wings, bright and changeable as shot silk, with a snow- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 441 

white pen-feather in each, and then tipped up its little purple 
tail, and once more disappeared. 

Aaron’s features were gradually relaxing; a change was 
coming over the spirit of his dream. The bird appeared for 
the third time, looked him in the face, first turning up one 
little sparkling eye, and then another, with its neck changing 
its hues like a pigeon’s. Aaron began to smile; he gently 
raised his stick — “ Do you cock your fud at me, you tiny 
thief, you ? ” — and thereupon he struck at it with his stick. 
Tip — the duck dived, and did not rise again; and all that 
he got was a sprinkling shower in the face, from the water 
flashing up at his blow, and once more the green covering 
settled back again, and the bust of his dead love, or what he 
fancied to be so, disappeared. Aaron laughed outright, arose, 
and began to shout to the black guide, who, along with Peg- 
top, had taken the beasts into the wood in search of provender. 
“ Ayez le bonte de donnez moi mon cheval? Bringibus the 
horsos, Massa Bungo — venga los quadrupedos — make haste 
vite, mucho, mucho .” 

Come, there is my Massa Aaron once more, at all events, 
thought I ; but oh, how unlike the Aaron of five minutes ago ! 

“ So now let us mount, my boy,” said he, and we shoved 
along until the evening fell, and the sun bid us good-by very 
abruptly. “ Cheep, cheep,” sung the lizard — “ chirp, chirp,” 
sung the crickets — “snore, snore,” moaned the tree-toad — 
and it was night. 

“ Dame Nature shifts the scene without much warning 
here, Thomas,” said Massa Aaron; “we must get along. 
Depechez, mon cher — depechez; diggez voire spurs into the 
ftankibus of votre cheval, mon ami,” shouted Aaron to our 
guide. 

“ Oui, monsieur,” replied the man, “ mais ” 

I did not like this ominous " but,” nevertheless we rode on. 
No more did Massa Aaron. The guide repeated his mais 
again. “Mais, mon filo,” said Bang, “mais — que meanez 
vous by baaing comme un sheep, eh? Que vizzy vous ', eh?” 

We were at this time riding in a bridle road, to which the 
worst sheep-paths in Westmoreland would have been a rail- 
way, with our horses every now and then stumbling and 
coming down on their noses on the deep red earth, while we 
as often stood a chance of being pitched bodily against some 
tree on the pathside. But we were by this time all alive 
again, the dulness of repletion having evaporated; and Mr 
Bang, I fancied, began to peer anxiously about him, and to 
fidget a good deal, and to murmur and grumble something 
in his gizzard about “arms — no arms,” as, feeling in his 


442 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


starboard holster, he detected a regular long cork of claret, 
where he had hoped to clutch a pistol, while in the larboard, 
by the praiseworthy forethought of our guide, a good roasted 
capon was ensconced. “ I say, Tom — tohoo — mind I don’t 
shoot you,” presenting the bottle of claret. “ If it had been 
soda water, and the wire not all the stronger, I might have 
had a chance in this climate — but we are somewhat caught 
here, my dear — we have no arms.” 

“ Poo,” said I, “ never mind — no danger at hand, take my 
word for it.” 

“ May be not, may be not — but, Pegtop, you scoundrel, why 
did you not fetch my pistols ? ” 

“ Eigh, you go fight, massa ? ” 

“ Fight, no, you booby ; but could not your own numskull 
— the fellow’s a fool — so come — ride on, ride on.” 

Presently we came to an open space, free of trees, where 
the moon shone brightly; it was a round precipitous hollow, 
that had been excavated apparently by the action of a small 
clear stream or spout of water, that sparkled in the moon- 
beams like a web of silver tissue, as it leaped in a crystal arch 
over our heads from the top of a rock about twenty feet high, 
that rose on our right hand, the summit clearly and sharply 
defined against the blue firmament, while, on the left, there 
was a small hollow or ravine, down which the rivulet gurgled 
and vanished; while a-head the same impervious forest pre- 
vailed, beneath which we had been travelling for so many 
hours. 

The road led right through this rugged hollow, crossing it 
about the middle, or, if any thing, nearer the base of the cliff ; 
and the whole clear space between the rock and the branches 
of the opposite trees might have measured twenty yards. In 
front of us, the path took a turn to the left, as if again en- 
tering below the dark shadow of the wood; but towards the 
right, with the moon shining brightly on it, there was a most 
beautiful bank, clear of underwood, and covered with the 
finest short velvet grass that could be dreamed of as a fitting 
sward to be pressed by fairy feet. We all halted in the centre 
of the open space. 

“ See how the moonlight sleeps on yonder bank ! ” said I. 

“I don’t know what sleeps there, Tom,” said Aaron; “but 
does that figure sleep, think you ? ” pointing to the dark crest 
of the precipitous eminence on the right hand, from which 
the moonlight rill was gushing, as if it had been smitten by 
the rod of the prophet. 

I started, and looked — a dark half-naked figure, with an 
enormous cap of the shaggy skin of some wild creature, was 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


44.3 

kneeling on one knee, on the very pinnacle, with a carabine 
resting across his thigh. I noticed our guide tremble from 
head to foot, but he did not speak. 

“ Vous avez des arms 9” said Bang, as he continued with 
great fluency, but little grammar ; “ ayez le bonte de cockez 
votre pistolettes? ** 

The man gave no answer. We heard the click of the cara- 
bine lock. 

_ “ Zounds ! ” said Aaron, with his usual energy when ex- 
cited, “ if you won’t use them, give them to me; ” and forth- 
with he snatched both pistols from our guide’s holsters. 
“Now, Tom, get on. Shove t’ other blackie a-head of you, 
Pegtop, will you ? Confound you for f orgetting my Mantons, 
you villain. I will bring up the rear.” 

“ Well, I will get on,” said I; “ but here, give me a pistol.” 

“ Ridez vous en avant, blackimoribus ambos — en avant, you 
black rascals — laissez le Capitan and me pour fightez ” — 
shouted Bang, as the black guide, guessing his meaning, 
spurred his horse against the moonlight bank. 

11 Ah — ah!” exclaimed the man, as he wheeled about, after 
he had ridden a pace or two under the shadow of the trees — 
“ Voila ces autres brigands la” 

“ Where?” said I. 

“ There,” said the man, in an ecstacy of fear — “ there ” — 
and peering up into the forest, where the checkering dancing 
moonlight was flickering on the dun, herbless soil, as the gen- 
tle night-breeze made the leaves of the trees twinkle to and 
fro, I saw three dark figures advancing upon us. 

“ Here’s a catastrophe, Tom, my boy,” quoth Aaron, who, 
now that he had satisfied himself that the pistols were prop- 
erly loaded and primed, had resumed all his wonted coolness 
in danger. “ Ask that fellow who is enacting the statue 
on the top of the rock what he wants. I am a tolerable shot, 
you know; and if he means evil, I shall nick him before he 
can carry his carabine to his shoulder, take my word for it.” 

“Who is there, and what do you want?” No answer; the 
man above us continued as still as if he had actually been a 
statue of bronze. Presently one of the three men in the wood 
sounded a short snorting note on a bullock’s horn. 

It would seem that until this moment their comrade above 
us had not been aware of their vicinity, for he immediately 
called out in the patois of St Domingo, “ Advance, and seize 
the travellers; ” and thereupon was in the act of raising his 
piece to his shoulder, when — crack — Bang fired his pistol. 
The man uttered a loud hah, but did not fall. 


444 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 


“ Missed him, by all that is wonderful ! ” said my com- 
paion. “ Now, Tom, it is your turn.” 

I levelled, and was in the very act of pulling the trigger, 
when the dark figure fell over slowly and stiffly on his back, 
and then began to struggle violently, and to cough loudly, 
as if he were suffocating. At length he rolled over and down 
the face of the rock, where he was caught by a strong clump 
of brushwood, and there he hung, while the coughing and 
crowing increased, and I felt a warm shower, as of heated 
water, sputter over my face. It was hot hot, and salt — God 
of my fathers! it was blood. But there was no time for con- 
sideration; the three figures by this time had been reinforced 
by six more, and they now, with a most fiendish yell, jumped 
down into the hollow basin, and surrounded us. 

“ Lay down your arms,” one of them shouted. 

“No,” I exclaimed; “ we are British officers, and armed, 
and determined to sell our lives dearly; and if you do suc- 
ceed in murdering us, you may rest assured you shall be 
hunted down by bloodhounds.” 

I thought the game was up, and little dreamed that the 
name of Briton would, amongst the fastnesses of Haiti, have 
proved a talisman; but it did so. “ We have no wish to injure 
you, but you must follow us, and see our general,” said the 
man who appeared to take the lead amongst them. Here two 
of the men scrambled up the face of the rock, and brought 
their wounded comrade down from where he hung, and laid 
him on the bank; he had been shot through the lungs, and 
could not speak. After a minute’s conversation, they lifted 
him on their shoulders; and as our guide and Monsieur Peg- 
top had been instantly bound, we were only two to nine armed 
men, and accordingly had nothing for it but to follow the 
hearers of the wounded man, with our horses tumbling and 
scrambling up the river-course, into which, by their order, 
we had now turned. 

We proceeded in this way for about half a mile, when it 
was evident that the jaded beasts could not travel farther 
amongst the twisted trunks of trees and fragments of rock 
with which the river-course was now strewed. We therefore 
dismounted, and were compelled to leave them in charge of 
two of the brigands, and immediately began to scramble up 
the hill side, through a narrow foot-path, in one of the other- 
wise most impervious thickets that I had ever seen. Pres- 
ently a black savage, half-naked like his companions, hailed, 
and told us to stand. Some password that we could not un- 
derstand was given by our captors, and we proceeded, still 
ascending, until, turning sharp off to the left, we came sud- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


445 


denly round a pinnacle of rock, and looked down into a deep 
dell, with a winding path leading to the brink of it. It was 
a round cockpit of a place, surrounded with precipitous lime- 
stone rocks on all sides, from the fissures of which large trees 
and bushes sprung, while the bottom was a level piece of 
ground, covered with long hay-like grass, evidently much 
trodden down. Close to the high bank, right opposite, and 
about thirty yards from us, a wood fire was sparkling cheerily 
against the gray rock; while, on the side next us, the roofs 
of several huts were visible, but there was no one moving 
about that we could see. The moment, however, that the man 
with the horn sounded a rough and most unmelodious blast, 
there was a buzz and a stir below, and many a short grunt 
arose out of the pit, and long yawns, and eigh, eighs ! while 
a dozen splinters of resinous wood were instantly lit, and 
held aloft, by whose light I saw fifty or sixty half-naked, but 
well-armed blacks, gazing up at us from beneath, their white 
eyes and whiter teeth glancing. Most of them had muskets 
and long knives, and several wore the military shako , while 
others had their heads bound round with the never-failing 
handkerchief. At length a fierce-looking fellow, dressed in 
short drawers, a round blue jacket, a pair of epaulets, and a 
most enormous cocked hat, placed a sort of rough ladder, a 
plank with notches cut in it with a hatchet, against the bank 
next us, and in a loud voice desired us to descend. I did so 
with fear and trembling, but Mr Bang never lost his presence 
of mind for a moment; and, in answer to the black chief’s 
questions, I again rested our plea on our being British of- 
ficers, despatched on service from a squadron (and as I used 
the word, the poor little Wave and solitary corvette rose up 
before me) across the island to Jacmel, to communicate with 
another British force lying there. The man heard me with 
great patience; but when I looked round the circle of tatter- 
demalions, for there was ne’er a shirt in the whole company — 
Falstaff’s men were a joke to them — with their bright arms 
sparkling to the red glare of the torches, that flared like 
tongues of flame overhead, while they grinned with their 
ivory teeth, and glared fiercely with their white eyeballs on us 
— I felt that our lives were not worth an hour’s purchase. 

At length the leader spoke — “ I am General Sanchez, driven 
to dispute President Petion’s sway by his injustice to me — 
but I trust our quarrel is not hopeless; will you, gentlemen, 
on your return to Port-au-Prince, use your influence with 
him to withdraw his decree against me ? ” 

This was so much out of the way — the idea of our being 
deputed to mediate between such great personages as Presi- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


446 

dent Petion and one of his rebel generals, was altogether so 
absurd, that, under other circumstances, I would have laughed 
in the black fellow’s face. However, a jest here might have 
cost us our lives; so we looked serious, and promised. 

“ Upon your honours,” said the poor fellow. 

“ Upon our words of honour,” we rejoined. 

“ Then embrace me” — and the savage thereupon, stinking 
of tobacco and cocoa-nut oil, hugged me, and kissed me on 
both cheeks, and then did the agreeable in a similar way to 
Mr Bang. Here the coughing and moaning of the wounded 
man broke in upon the conference. 

“ What is that ? ” — said Sanchez. One of his people told 
him. “ Ah!” said he, with a good deal of savageness in his 
tone— “Aha! blood?” 

We promptly explained how it happened; for a few mo- 
ments, I did not know how he might take it. 

“But I forgive you,” at length, said he — “however, my 
men may revenge their comrade. You must drink and eat 
with them.” 

This was said aside to us, as it were. He ordered some 
roasted plantains to be brought, and mixed some cruel bad 
tafia with water in an enormous gourd. He ate, and then 
took a pull himself — we followed, — and he then walked round 
the circle, and carefully observed that every one had tasted 
also. Being satisfied on this head, he abruptly ordered us to 
ascend the ladder, and to pass on our way. 

The poor fellow was mad, I believe. However, some time 
afterwards, the president hunted him down, and got hold of 
him, but I believe he never punished him. As for the 
wounded man — 

“ Whether he did live or die, 

Tom Cringle does not know.” 

We were reconducted by our former escort to where we 
left our horses, remounted, and without farther let or hin- 
derance, arrived by day-dawn at the straggling town of 
Jacmel. The situation is very beautiful, the town being built 
on the hillside, looking out seaward on a very safe road- 
stead, the anchorage being defended to the southward by 
bright blue shoals, and white breakers, that curl and roar 

over the coral reefs and ledges. As we rode up to Mr S J s, 

the principal merchant in the place, and a Frenchman, we 
were again struck with the dilapidated condition of the 
houses, and the generally ruinous state of the town. The 
brown and black population appeared to be lounging about 
in the most absolute idleness ; and here, as at Port-au-Prince, 
every second man you met was a soldier. The women sit- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


447 


ting in their little shops, nicely set out with a variety of gay 
printed goods, and the crews of the English vessels loading 
coffee, were the only individuals who seemed to be capable of 
any exertion. 

“ I say Tom,” quoth Massa Aaron, — “ do you see that old 
fellow there ? ” 

“ What ! that old gray-headed negro sitting in the arbour 
there ? ” 

“ Yes — the patriarch is sitting under the shadow of his own 
Lima bean” 

And so in very truth he was. The stem was three inches 
in diameter, and the branches had been trained along and 
over a sparred arch, and were loaded with pods. 

“ I shall believe in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, 
henceforth and for ever,” said I. 

We were most kindly entertained by Mr S , and spent 

two or three days very happily. The evening of the day on 
which we arrived, we had strolled out about nine o’clock to 
take the air — our host and his clerks being busy in the 
counting-house — and were on our way home, when we looked 
in on them at their desks, before ascending to the apartments 

above. There were five clerks and Mr S , all working 

away on the top of their tall mahogany tripods, by the light 
of their brown home-made wax candles, while three masters 
of merchantmen were sitting in a corner, comparing bills 
of lading, making up manifests, and I do not know what 
beside. 

“ It is now about time to close,” said Mr S ; “ have 

you any objection to a little music, gentlemen? or are you 
too much fatigued ? ” 

“ Music — music,” said Mr. Bang ; “ I delight in good music, 

but ” He was cut short by the whole bunch, the clerks 

and their master, closing their ledgers, and journals, and 
day-books, and cash-books with a bang, while one hooked up 
a fiddle, another a clarionet, another a flute, &c. while Mr 

S offered, with a smile, his own clarionet to Massa 

Aaron, and holding out at the same time, with the true good- 
breeding of a Frenchman, a span-new reed. To my unutter- 
able surprise he took it — sucked in his lips — wet the reed in 
his mouth; then passing his hand across his muzzle, coolly 

asked Mr S what the piece was to be? “ Adeste fideles, 

if you please,” said S , rather taken aback. Mr Bang 

nodded — sounded a bar or two — gave another very scientific 
flourish, and then, -calmly awaited the opening. He then 
tendered a fiddle to me — altogether beyond my compass — 
but I offered to officiate on the kettledrum, the drummer 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


448 

being competent to something else. At a signal from our 
host away they all launched, in full crash , and very melodious 
it was too, let me tell you, Aaron’s instrument telling most 
famously. 

The next day we went to visit a tafia property in the 
neighbourhood. On our way we passed a dozen miserable- 
looking blacks, cleaning canes, followed by an ugly Turk of 
a brown man, almost naked, with the omnipresent glazed 
cocked-hat, and a drawn cutlass in his hand. He was abusing 
the poor devils most lustily as we rode along, and stood so 
pertinaciously in the path, that I could not for the life of 
me pass without jostling him. “Je vous demande pardon ” 
said I, with a most abject salaam to my saddle-bow. He 
knit his brows and shut his teeth hard, as he ground out 
between the glancing ivory, “ Sacre! — voila ces foutres blancs 
la ,” — clutching the hilt of his couteau firmly all the while. 

I thought he would have struck me. But Mr S coming 

up, mollified the savage, and we rode on. 

The tafia estate was a sore affair. It had once been a 
prosperous sugar plantation, as the broken panes and ruined 
houses, blackened by fire, were melancholy vouchers for; but 
now the whole cultivation was reduced to about a couple of 
acres of wiry sugar canes, and the boiling and distilling was 
carried on in a small unroofed nook of the original works. 

Two days after this we returned to Port-au-Prince, and I 
could not help admiring the justness of Aaron’s former de- 
scription; for noisome exhalations were rising thick, as the 
evening sun shone hot and sickly on the long bank of fat 
black mud that covers the beach beneath the town. We 

found Captain Transom at Mr S ’s. I made my report 

of the state of the merchantmen loading on the south side of 
the island, and retired to rest, deucedly tired and stiff with 
my ride. Next morning Bang entered my room. 

“ Hillo, Tom — the skipper has been shouting for you this 
half hour — get up, man — get up.” 

“ My dear sir, I am awfully tired.” 

“ Oh ! ” sung Bang — 

“ ‘ I have a silent sorrow here ’ — 

eh?” 

It was true enough; no sailor rides seventy miles on end 
with impunity. That same evening we bade adieu to our 

excellent host Mr S , and the rising moon shone on us 

under weigh for Kingston, where two days after we safely 
anchored with the homeward bound trade. 

“ The roaring seas 
Is not a place of ease.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


449 


says a Point ditty. No more is the command of a small 
schooner in the West Indies. We had scarcely anchored when 
the boarding-officer from the flag-ship brought me a message 
to repair thither immediately. I did so. As I stepped on 
deck, the lieutenant was leaning on the drum-head of the 
capstan, with the signal-book open before him, while the 
signal-man was telling off the semaphore, which was rattling 
away at the Admiral’s pen, situated about five miles off. 

“Ah! Cringle,” said he, without turning his head, “how 
are you? — glad to see you — wish you joy, my lad. Here, 
lend me a hand, will you? it concerns you.” I took the 
book, and as the man reported, I pieced the following com- 
fortable sentence together. 

“ Desire — W ave — fit — wood — water — instantly — to take 
convoy — to Spanish Main — to-morrow morning — Mr Cringle 
— remain on board — orders will be sent — evening.” 

“ Heigh ho, says Rowley .” 

sang I Thomas, in great wrath and bitterness of spirit, 
“ D d hard — am I a duck, to live in the water alto- 

gether, entirely ? ” 

“ Tom, my boy,” sung out a voice from the water. If was 
Aaron Bang’s, who, along with Transom, had seen me go 
on board the receiving ship. “ Come along, man — come 
along — Transom is going to make interest to get you a 
furlough on shore; so come along, and dine with us in 
Kingston.” 

“I am ordered to sea to-morrow morning, my dear sir,” 
said I, like to cry. — “ No ! ” — “ Too true, too true.” So no 
help for it, I took a sad farewell of my friends, received my 
orders, laid in my provisions and water, hauled out into the 
fairway, and sailed for Santa Martha next morning at day- 
break, with three merchant schooners under convoy — one 
for Santa Martha — another for Carthagena — and the third 
for Porto-Bello. 

We sailed on the 24th of such a month, and, after a pleas- 
ant passage, anchored at Santa Martha, at 8 a.m., on the 
81st. When we came to anchor we saluted, which seemed 
to have been a somewhat unexpected honour, as the return 
was fired from the fort after a most primitive fashion. A 
black fellow appeared with a shovel of live embers, one of 
which another sans culotte caught up in his hand, chucking 
it from palm to palm until he ran to the breach of the first 
gun, where clapping it on the touch-hole, he fired it off, and 
so on seriatim , through the whole battery, until the required 
number of guns were given, several of which, by the by. 


450 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


were shotted, as we could hear the balls whiz overhead. The 
town lies on a small plain, at the foot of very high moun- 
tains, or rather on a sand-bank, formed from the washings 
from these mountains. The summit of the highest of them, 
we could see from the deck, was covered with snow, which 
at sunrise, in the clear light of the cool gray dawn, shone, 
when struck by the first rays of the sun, like one entire 
amethyst. Oh, how often I longed for the wings of the eagle, 
to waft me from the hot deck of the little vessel, where the 
thermometer in the shade stood at 95, far up amongst the 
shining glaciers, to be comforted with cold! 

One striking natural phenomenon is exhibited here, arising 
out of the vicinity of this stupendous prong of the Cordil- 
leras. The sea-breeze blows into the harbour all day, but in 
the night, or rather towards morning, the cold air from the 
high regions rushes down, and blows with such violence off 
the land, that my convoy and myself were nearly blown out 
to sea the first night after we arrived; and it was only by 
following the practice of the native craft, and anchoring 
close under the lee of the beach, — in fact, by having an an- 
chor high and dry on the shore itself — the playa , as the 
Spaniards call it — that we could count on riding through the 
night with security or comfort. 

There are several small islands at the entrance of the 
harbour, on the highest of which is a fort, that might easily 
be rendered impregnable; it commands both the town and 
harbour. The place itself deserves little notice; the houses 
are mean, and interspersed with negro huts, but there is one 
fine church, with several tolerable paintings in it. One 
struck me as especially grotesque, although I had often seen 
queer things in Roman Catholic churches in Europe. It was 
a representation of Hell, with Old Nicholas, under the guise 
of a dragon, entertaining himself with the soul of an un- 
fortunate heretic in his claws, who certainly appeared far 
from comfortable; while a lot of his angels were washing 
the sins off a set of fine young men, as you would the dirt 
off scabbit potatoes, in a sea of liquid fire. But their saints ! 
— I often rejoiced that Aaron Bang was not with me; we 
should unquestionably have quarrelled; for as to the manner 
in which they were dressed and decorated, the most fantastic 
mode a girl ever did up her doll in, was a joke to it. Still 
these wooden deities are treated with such veneration, that 
I do believe their ornaments, which are of massive gold and 
silver, are never, or very rarely, stolen. 

On the evening of the 2d of the following month, we sailed 
again, but having been baffled by calms and light winds, it 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


451 


was the 4th before we anchored off the St Domingo gate at 
Carthagena, and next morning we dropped down to Boca 
Chica, and saw our charge, a fine dashing schooner of 150 
tons, safe into the harbour. About 9 a.m., we weighed, but 
we had scarcely got the anchor catted, when it came on to 
blow great guns from the northwest — a most unusual thing 
hereabouts — so it was down anchor again; and as I had 
made up my mind not to attempt it again before morning, 
I got the gig in the water with all convenient speed; and 
that same forenoon I reached the town, and immediately 
called on the Viceroy, but under very different circumstances 
from the time Mr Splinter and I had entered it along with 
the conquering army. 

We dined with the magnate, and found a very large party 
assembled. Amongst others, I especially recollect that the 
Inquisidor-General was conspicuous; but every one, with the 
exception of the Captain-General and his immediate staff, 
was arrayed in gingham jackets; so there was not much style 
in the affair. 

I had before dinner an opportunity to inspect the works 
of Carthagena at my leisure. It is, unquestionably, a very 
strong place, the walls, which are built of solid masonry, 
being armed with at least three hundred pieces of brass 
cannon, while the continual ebb and flow of the tide in the 
ditch creates a current so strong, that it would be next to 
impossible to fill it up, as fascines would be carried away by 
the current; so that, were the walls even breached, it would 
be impracticable to storm them. The appearance of Cartha- 
gena from the sea, that is, from a vessel anchored off the St 
Domingo gate, is singularly beautiful and picturesque. It 
is situated on a sandy island, or rather a group of islands; 
and the beach here shoals so gradually, that boats of even a 
very small draught of water cannot approach within musket- 
shot. The walls and numerous batteries have a very com- 
manding appearance. The spires and towers on the churches 
are numerous, and many of them were decorated with flags 
when we were there ; and the green trees shooting up amidst 
the red-tiled houses, afforded a beautiful relief to the 
prospect. A little behind the town, on a gentle acclivity, is 
the citadel, or Fort San Felipe, whose appearance conveys 
an idea of impregnable strength, (but all this sort of thing, 
is it not written in Roderick Random?) and on the ship-like 
hill beyond it, the only other eminence in the neighbour- 
hood, stands the convent of the Popa, like a poop lantern on 
the high stern of a ship, from which, indeed, it takes its 
name. This convent had been strongly fortified; and, com- 


452 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


manding San Felipe, was of great use to Morillo, who car- 
ried it by assault during the siege, and held it until the in- 
surgents shelled him out from the citadel. The effect, when 
I first saw it, was increased by the whole scene — city, and 
batteries, and Popa — being reflected in the calm, smooth 
sea, as distinctly as if it had been glass ; so clear, in fact, was 
the reflection, that you could scarcely distinguish the shadow 
from the reality. We weighed mext morning — that is, on 
the 6th of the month, and arrived safe at Porto-Bello on the 
11th, after a tedious passage, during which we had continual 
rains, accompanied with vivid lightning and tremendous 
thunder. I had expected to have fallen in with one of our 
frigates here; but I afterwards learned that, although I had 
slid down cheerily along shore, the weather current that 
prevailed farther out at sea had swept her away to the east- 
ward; so I ran in and anchored, and immediately waited on 
the Governor, who received me in what might once have been 
a barn, although it did not now deserve the name. 

Porto-Bello was originally called Nombre de Dios, having 
received the former name from the English when we took it. 
It is a miserable, dirty, damp hole, surrounded by high, 
forest-clad hills, round which everlasting mists curl and ob- 
scure the sun, whose rays, at any chance moment when they 
do reach the steamy swamp on which it is built, or the 
waters of the lead-coloured, land-locked cove that constitutes 
the harbour, immediately exhale a thick sickly moisture, in 
clouds of sluggish white vapours, smelling diabolically of 
decayed vegetables, and slime, and mud. I will venture a 
remark that will be found, I am persuaded, pretty near the 
truth, that there were twenty carrion crows to be seen in the 
streets for every inhabitant; the people seem every way 
worthy of such an abode — saffron, dingy, miserable, emaci- 
ated-looking devils. As for the place itself, it appeared to 
my eyes one large hospital, inhabited by patients in the 
yellow fever. During the whole of the following day, there 
was still no appearance of the frigate, and I had in con- 
sequence now to execute the ulterior part of my orders, which 
were, that if I did not find her at anchor when I arrived, or 
if she did not make her appearance within forty-eight hours 
thereafter, I was myself to leave the Wave in Porto Bello, 
and proceed overland across the Isthmus to Panama, and 
to deliver, on board of H.M.S. Bandera, into the captain’s 
own hands, a large packet with despatches from the Govern- 
ment at home, as I understood, of great importance, touch- 
ing the conduct of our squadron, with reference to the 
vagaries of some of the mushroom American Republics on 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


453 


the Pacific. But if I fell in with the frigate, then I was to 
deliver the said packet to the captain, and return immedi- 
ately in the Wave to Port Royal. 

Having, therefore, obtained letters from the Governor of 
Porto-Bello to the Commandant at Chagres, I chartered a 
canoe, with four stout canoemen and a steersman, or patron , 
as he is called, to convey me to Cruzes; and having laid in 
a good stock of eatables and drinkables, and selected the black 
pilot, Peter Mangrove, to go as my servant, accompanied by 
his never-failing companion, Sneezer, and taking my ham- 
mock and double-barrelled gun, and a brace of pistols with 
me, we shoved off at six a.m. on the morning of the 14th. 

It was a rum sort of conveyance this said canoe of mine. 
In the first place it was near forty feet long, and only five 
wide at the broadest, being hollowed out of one single wild 
cotton- tree; how this was to be pulled through the sea on 
the coast, by four men, I could not divine. However, I was 
assured by the old thief who chartered it to me, that it would 
be all right ; whereas, had my innocence not been imposed on, 
I might, in a caiuco, or smaller canoe, have made the passage 
in one half the time it took me. 

About ten feet of the afterpart was thatched with palm 
leaves, over a framework of broad ash hoops; which awning, 
called the toldo, was open both towards the steersman that 
guided us with a long broad-bladed paddle in the stern, and 
in the direction of the men forward, who, on starting, stripped 
themselves stark naked, and, giving a loud yell every now 
and then, began to pull their oars, or long paddles, after a 
most extraordinary fashion. First, when they lay back to the 
strain, they jumped backwards and upwards on to the 
thwart with their feet, and then, as they once more feathered 
their paddles again, they came crack down on their bottoms 
with a loud skelp on the seats, upon which they again 
mounted at the next stroke, and so on. 

When we cleared the harbour, it was fine and serene, but 
about noon it came on to blow violently from the northeast. 
All this while we were coasting it along about pistol-shot 
from the white coral beach, with the clear light green swell 
on our right hand, and beyond it the dark and stormy waters 
of the blue rolling ocean; and the snow-white roaring surf 
on our left. By the time I speak of, the swell had been 
lashed up into breaking waves, and, after shipping more salt 
water than I had bargained for, we were obliged, about four 
P.M., to shove into a cove within the reef, called Naranja. 

Along this part of the coast there is a chain of salt-water 
lagoons, divided from the sea by the coral beach, the crest 


454 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


of which is covered here and there with clumps of stunted 
mangroves. 

This beach, strangely enough, is higher than the land im- 
mediately behind it, as if it had been a dike, or natural 
breakwater, thrown up by the sea. Every here and there, 
there were gaps in this natural dike, and it was through one 
of these we shoved, and soon swung to our grapnel in perfect 
security, but in a most outlandish situation certainly. 

As we rode to the easterly breeze, there was the beach as 
described, almost level with the water, on our left hand, the 
land or lee side of it covered with most beautiful white sand 
and shells, with whole warrens of land-crabs running out 
and in their holes like little rabbits, their tiny green bodies 
seeming to roll up and down, for I was not near enough to 
see their feet, or the mode of their locomotion, like bushels 
of grapeshot trundling all about on the shining white shore. 
Beyond, the roaring surf was flashing up over the clumps of 
green bushes, and thundering on the seaward face. On the 
right hand, a-head of us, and a-stern of us, the prospect was 
shut in by impervious thickets of mangroves, while in the 
distance the blue hills rose glimmering and indistinct, as 
seen through the steamy atmosphere. We were anchored in 
a stripe of clear water, about three hundred yards long by 
fifty broad. There was a clear space a-beam of us landward, 
of about half an acre in extent, on which was built a solitary 
Indian hut close to the water’s edge, with a small canoe 
drawn up close to the door. We had not been long at anchor 
when the canoe was launched, and a monkey-looking naked 
old man paddled off, and brought us a most beautiful chicken 
turtle, some yams, and a few oranges. I asked him his price, 
lie rejoined, " por amor de Dios ” — that it was his saint’s day, 
and he meant it as a gift. However, he did not refuse a dol- 
lar when tendered to, him before he paddled away. 

That night, when we were all at supper, master and men, 
I heard and felt a sharp crack against the side of the canoe. 
“ITillo, Peter, what is that?” said I. 

“ Nothing, sir,” quoth Peter, who was enjoying his scraps 
abaft, with the headman, patron, or whatever you may call 
him, of my crew. There was a blazing fire kindled on a bed 
of white sand, forward in the bow of the canoe, round which 
the four bo gas, or canoemen, were seated, with three sticks 
stuck up triangularly over the fire, from which depended an 
earthen pot, in which they were cooking their suppers. 

I had rigged my hammock between the foremost and after- 
most hoops of the toldo, and as I was fatigued and sleepy, 
and it was now getting late, I desired to betake myself to 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


455 


rest; so I was just flirting with a piece of ham, preparatory 
to the cold grog, when I again felt a similar thump and rattle 
against the side of the canoe. There was a small aperture in 
the palm thatch, right opposite to where I was sitting, on 
the outside of which I now heard a rustling noise, and 
presently a long snout was thrust through, and into the 
canoe, which kept opening and shutting with a sharp rattling 
noise. It was more like two long splinters of mud-covered 
and half-decayed timber, than any thing I can compare it to ; 
but as the lower jaw was opened, like a pair of Brobdingnag 
scissors, a formidable row of teeth was unmasked, the snout 
from the tip to the eyes being nearly three feet long. The 
scene at this moment was exceedingly good, as seen by the 
light of a small, bright, silver lamp, fed with spirits of wine, 
that I always travelled with, which hung from one of the 
hoops of the toldo. First, there was our friend Peter Man- 
grove, cowering in a corner under the afterpart of the awn- 
ing, covered up with a blanket, and shaking, as if with an 
ague-fit, with the patron peering over his shoulder, no less 
alarmed. Sneezer, the dog, was sitting on end, with his black 
nose resting on the table, waiting patiently for his crumbs; 
and the black boatmen were forward in the bow of the canoe, 
jabbering, and laughing, and munching, as they clustered 
round a sparkling fire. When I first saw the apparition of 
the diabolical-looking snout, I was in a manner fascinated, 
and could neither speak nor move. Mangrove and the patron 
were also paralyzed with fear, and the others did not see it; 
so Sneezer was the only creature amongst us, aware of the 
danger, who seemed to have his wits about him, for the 
instant he noticed it, he calmly lifted his nose off the table, 
and gave a short startled bark, and then crouched and drew 
himself back as if in act to spring, glancing his eyes from 
the monstrous jaws to my face, and nuzzling and whining 
with a laughing expression, and giving a small yelp now 
and then, and again riveting his eyes with intense earnest- 
ness on the alligator, telling me as plainly as if he had 
spoken it — “ If you choose, master, I will attack it, as in 
duty bound, but really such a customer is not at all in my 
way.” And not only did he say this, but he shewed his in- 
tellect -was clear, and no way warped through fear, for he 
now stood on his hind legs, and holding on the hammock 
with his forepaws, he thrust his snout below the pillow, and 
pulled out one of my pistols, which always garnished the 
head of my bed, on such expeditions as the present. 

My presence of mind returned at witnessing the courage 
and sagacity of my noble dog. I seized the loaded pistol. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


456 

and as by this time the eyes of the alligator were inside of the 
toldo, I clapped the muzzle to the larboard one and fired. 
The creature jerked back so suddenly and convulsively, that 
part of the toldo was torn away: and as the dead monster 
fell off, the canoe rolled as if in a seaway. My crew shouted 
“ Que es esto? ” Peter Mangrove cheered — Sneezer barked 
and yelled at a glorious rate, and could scarcely be held in 
the canoe — and looking overboard, we saw the monster, 
twelve feet long at least, upturn his white belly to the rising 
moon, struggle for a moment with his short paws, and after 
a solitary heavy lash of his scaly tail, he floated away a-stern 
of us, dead and still. To proceed — poor Peter Mangrove, 
whose nerves were consumedly shaken by this interlude, was 
seized during the night with a roasting fever, brought on in 
a great measure, I believe, by fear, at finding himself so far 
out of his latitude; and that he had grievous doubts as to 
the issue of our voyage, and as to where we were bound for, 
was abundantly evident. I dosed him most copiously with 
salt water, a very cooling medicine, and no lack of it at 
hand. 

We weighed at gray dawn, on the morning of the 15th, and 
at 11 o’clock a.m. arrived at Chagres, a more miserable place, 
were that credible, even than Porto-Bello. The eastern side 
of the harbour is formed by a small promontory that runs out 
into the sea about five hundred yards, with a bright little 
bay to windward; while a long muddy mangrove-covered pit 
forms the right hand bank as you enter the mouth or estuary 
of the river Chagres on the west. The easternmost bluff is 
a narrow saddle, with a fort erected on the extreme point 
facing the sea, which, so far as situation is concerned, is, or 
ought to be, impregnable, the rock being precipitous on three 
faces, while it is cut off to landward by a deep dry ditch, 
about thirty feet wide, across which a movable drawbridge 
is let down, and this compartment of the defences is all very 
regular, with scarp and counterscarp, covered-way and glacis. 
The brass guns mounted on the castle were numerous and 
beautiful, but every thing was in miserable disrepair; several 
of the guns, for instance, had settled down bodily on the 
platform, having fallen through the crushed rotten car- 
riages. I found an efficient garrison in this stronghold of 
three old negroes, who had not even a musket of any kind, 
but the commandant was not in the castle when I paid my visit ; 
however, one of the invincibles undertook to pilot me to El 
Senor Torre’s house, where his honour was dining. The 
best house in the place this was, by the by, although only a 
thatched hut; and here I found his Excellency the Com- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


457 

mandant, a little shrivelled insignificant-looking creature. 
He was about sitting down to his dinner, of which he invited 
me to partake, alongside of El Senor Torre, who was neither 
more nor less than a reputable negro; and as I was very 
hungry, I contrived to do justice to the first dish, but my 
stomach was grievously offended at the second, which seemed 
to me to be a compound of garlic, brick dust, and train oil, 
so that I was glad to hurry on board of my canoe, to settle 
all with a little good Madeira. 

At four p.m. 1 proceeded up the river, which is here about 
a hundred yards across, and very deep; it rolls sluggishly 
along through a low swampy country, covered to the water’s 
edge with thick sedges and underwood, below which the water 
stagnates, and generates myriads of musquitoes, and other 
troublesome insects, and sends up whole clouds of noxious 
vapours, redolent of yellow fever, and ague, and cramps, and 
all manner of comfortable things. 

At ten p.m. we anchored by a grapnel in the stream, and I 
set Peter Mangrove forthwith to officiate in his new capacity 
of cook, and really he made a deuced good one. I then slung 
my hammock under the toldo, and lighting a slow match, at 
the end of it forwards, to smoke away the musquitoes, 
having previously covered the aftermost end with a mat, I 
wrapped myself in my cloak, and turned in to take my 
snooze. We weighed again about two in the morning. As 
the day dawned the dull gray steamy clouds settled down on 
us once more, while the rain fell in a regular waterspout. It 
was anything but a cheering prospect to look along the dreary 
vistas of the dull brimful Lethe-like stream, with nothing 
to be seen but the heavy lowering sky above, the red swollen 
water beneath, and the gigantic trees high towering over- 
head, and growing close to the water’s edge, laced together 
with black snake-like withes, while the jungle was thick and 
impervious, and actually grew down into the water, for beach, 
or shore, or cleared bank, there was none, — all water and un- 
derwood, except where a soft slimy steaming black bank of 
mud hove its shining back from out of the dead waters near 
the shore, with one or more monstrous alligators sleeping on 
it, like dirty rotten logs of wood, scarcely deigning to lift 
their abominable long snouts to look at us as we passed, or 
to raise their scaly tails, with the black mud sticking to the 
scales in great lumps — oh — horrible — most horrible ! But 
the creatures, although no beauties certainly, are harmless 
after all. For instance, I never heard a well-authenticated 
case of their attacking a human being hereabouts; pigs and 
fowls they do tithe, however, like any parson. I don’t mean 


45 ^ 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


to say that they would not make free with a little fat 
dumpling of a piccaniny, if he were thrown to them, but they 
seem to have no ferocious propensities. I shot one of them; 
he was about twelve feet long; the bullet entered in the joints 
of the mail, below the shoulder of the forepaw, where the 
hide was tender; but if you fire at them with the scale, that 
is, with the monster looking at you, a musket-ball will glance. 
I have often in this my Log spoken of the Brobdingnag 
lizards, the guanas. I brought down one this day, about 
three feet long, and found it, notwithstanding its dragon- 
like appearance, very good eating. At 11 a.m. on the 18th, 
we arrived at the village of Cruzes, the point where the river 
ceases to be navigable for canoes, and from whence you take 
horse, or rather mule, for Panama. For about fifteen or 
twenty miles below Cruzes, the river becomes rapid, and 
full of shoals, when the oars are laid aside, and the canoes 
are propelled by long poles. 

The Town, as it is called, is a poor miserable place, com- 
posed chiefly of negro huts; however, a Spanish trader of the 
name of Villa verde, who had come over in the Wave as a 
passenger, and had preceded me in a lighter canoe, and to 
whom I had shewn some kindness, now repaid it, as far as lay 
in his power. 

He lodged me for the night, and hired mules for me to pro- 
ceed to Panama in the morning; so I slung my hammock in 
an old Spanish soldier’s house, who keeps a kind of posada, 
and was called by my friend Villaverde at daydawn, whose 
object was, not to tell me to get ready for my journey, but 
to ask me if I would go and bathe before starting. Rather 
a rum sort of request, it struck me; nevertheless, a purifica- 
tion, after the many disagreeables I had endured, could not 
come amiss; and slipping on my trowsers, and casting my 
cloak on my shoulders, away we trudged to a very beautiful 
spot, about a mile above Cruzes, where, to my surprise, I 
found a score of Crusahos , all ploutering in the water, puffing, 
and blowing, and shouting., “ Now an alligator might pick 
and choose,” thought I; however, no one seemed in the least 
afraid, so I dashed amongst them. Presently about pistol- 
shot from us, a group of females appeared. “ Come,” thought 
I, “ rather too much for a modest young man this too ;” and 
deuce take me, as I am a gentleman, if the whole bevy did 
not disrobe in cold blood, and squatter, naked as their mother 
Eve was in the garden of Eden, before she took to the her- 
bage, right into the middle of the stream, skirling and laugh- 
ing, as if not even a male musquito had been within twenty 
miles. However, my neighbour took no notice of them; it 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


459 


seemed all a matter of course. But let that pass. About 
eight o’clock a.m. I got under weigh, with Peter Mangrove, 
on two good stout mules, and a black guide running before 
me with a long stick, with which he sprung over the sloughs 
and stones in the road with great agility; I would have 
backed him against many a passable hunter, to do four miles 
over a close country in a steeple-chase. 

Panama is distant from Cruzes about seven leagues. The 
road is somewhat like what the Highland ones must have 
been before General Wade took them in hand, and only 
passable for mules ; indeed, in many places where it has been 
hewn out of the rock in zigzags on the face of the hill, it is 
scarcely passable for two persons meeting. But the scenery 
on each side is very beautiful, as it winds, for the most part, 
amongst steep rocks, overshadowed by magnificent trees, 
amongst which birds of all sizes, and of the most beautiful 
plumage, are perpetually glancing, while a monkey, every 
here and there, would sit grimacing, and chattering, and 
scratching himself in the cleft of a tree. 

I should think, judging from my barometer — but I may 
have made an inaccurate calculation, and I have not Hum- 
boldt by me — that the ridge of the highest is fifteen hundred 
feet above the level of the ocean, so that it would be next to 
impossible to join the two seas at this point by a canal with 
water in it. However, I expect to see a Joint Stock Com- 
pany set agoing some fine day yet, for the purpose of cut- 
ting it, that is, when the national capital next accumu- 
lates (and Lord knows when that will be) to a plethora, 
and people’s purses become so distended that they require 
bleeding. 

After travelling about twenty miles, the scene gradually 
opens, and one begins to dream about Vasco Nunez and the 
enthusiastic first explorers of the Isthmus; but my first view 
of the Pacific was through a drenching shower of rain, that 
wet me to the skin, and rather kept my imagination under; 
for this said imagination of mine is like a barn-door chuckey, 
brisk and crouse enough when the sun shines, and the sky is 
blue, and plenty of grub at hand, but I can’t write poetry 
when I am cauld, and hungry, and droohed. Still, when I 
caught my first glimpse of the distant Pacific, I felt that, even 
through a miserable drizzle, it was a noble prospect. 

As you proceed, you occasionally pass through small open 
savannahs, which become larger, and the clear spaces wider, 
until the forest you have been travelling under gradually 
breaks into beautiful clumps of trees, like those in a gentle- 
man’s park, and every here and there a placid clear piece of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


460 

water spreads out, full of pond turtle, which I believe to be 
one and the same with the tortoise and eels; the latter of 
which, by the by, are very sociable creatures, for in the clear 
moonlight nights, with the bright sparkling dew on the short 
moist grass, they frequently travel from one pond to another, 
wriggling along the grass like snakes. I have myself found 
them fifty yards from the water; but whether the errand was 
love, or war, or merely to drink tea with some of the slippery 
young females in the next pool, and then return again, the 
deponent sayeth not. 

As you approach the town, the open spaces before men- 
tioned become more frequent, until at length you gain a 
rising ground, about three miles from Panama, where, as the 
sun again shone out, the view became truly enchanting. 

There lay the town of Panama, built on a small tongue of 
land, jutting into the Pacific, surrounded by walls, which 
might have been a formidable defence once, but I wish my 
promotion depended on my rattling the old bricks and stones 
about their ears, with one single frigate, if I could only get 
near enough ; but in the impossibility of this lies the strength 
of the place, as the water shoals so gradually, that the tide 
retires nearly a mile and a half from the walls, rising, I 
consider, near eighteen feet at the springs, while, on the 
opposite side of the Isthmus, at Chagres for instance, there 
is scarcely any at all, the gulf stream neutralizing it almost 
entirely. 

On the right hand a hill overhangs the town, rising pre- 
cipitously to the height of a thousand feet or thereabouts, on 
the extreme pinnacle of which is erected a signal station, 
called the Vigia, which, at the instant I saw it, was telegraph- 
ing to some craft out at sea. As for the city, to assume our 
friend Mr Bang’s mode of description, it was shaped like a 
tadpole, the body representing the city, and the suburb the 
tail; or a stewpan, the city and its fortifications being the 
pan, while the handle, tending obliquely towards us, was the 
Raval, or long street, extending Savannnahward, without the 
walls. At the distance from which we viewed it, the red- 
tiled houses, cathedral, with its towers, and the numerous 
monasteries and nunneries, seemed girt in with a white 
ribbon, while a series of black spots here and there denoted 
the cannon on the batteries. To the left of the town, there 
was a whole flotilla of small craft, brigs, schooners, and vege- 
table boats ; while farther out at sea, beyond the fortifications, 
three large ships rode at anchor ; and beyond them again, the 
beautiful group of islands lying about five miles off the town, 
appeared to float on and were reflected in the calm, glass-like 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


461 


expanse of the Pacific, like emeralds chased in silver, while 
the ocean itself, towards the horizon, seemed to rise up like a 
scene in a theatre, or a burnished bright silver wall, growing 
more and more blue, and hazy and indistinct, as it ascended, 
until it melted into the cloudless heaven, so that no one could 
tell where water and sky met. 

“ Thou glorious mirror, 

in all time. 

Calm or convulsed— in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime. 

The image of Eternity— the throne 
Of the Invisible.” 

While a sperm whale every now and then rose between us 
and the islands, and spouted up a high double jet into the 
air, like a blast of steam, and then, with a heavy flounder of 
his broad tail, slowly sank again; and a boat here and there 
glided athwart the scene, and a sleepy sail arose with a slow 
motion and a fitful rattle, and a greasy cheep, on the mast of 
some vessel, getting all ready to weigh, while small floating 
trails of blue smoke were streaming away astern from the 
tiny cabooses of the craft at anchor, and a mournful distant 
“ yo heave oh ” came booming past us on the light air, and 
the everlasting tinkle of the convent bells sounded cheerily, 
and the lowing of the kine around us called up old associa- 
tions in my bosom, as I looked forth on the glorious spectacle 
from beneath a magnificent bower of orange-trees and shad- 
docks, while all manner of wild-flowers blossomed and 
bloomed around us. 

We arrived at Panama about three p. m., covered to the 
eyes with mud, and after some little difficulty, I found out 
Senor Hombrecillo Justo’s house, who received me very 
kindly. Next morning I waited on the Governor, made my 
bow, and told him my errand. He was abundantly civil ; pro- 
fessing himself ready to serve me in any wav, and promis- 
ing to give me the earliest intelligence of the arrival of the 
Bandera. I then returned to mine host’s, to whom I had 
strong letters of introduction from some Kingston friends. 

I soon found that I had landed amongst a family of origi- 
nals. Mine host was a little thin withered body, with a face 
that might have vied with the monkey whom the council 
of Aberdeen took for a sugar planter. He wore his own gray 
hair in a long greasy queue, and his costume, when I first 
saw him, was white cotton stockings, white jean small-clothes 
and waistcoat, and a little light-blue silk coat; he wore large 


462 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


solid gold buckles in his shoes, and knee-buckles of the same. 
His voice was small and squeaking, and when heated in argu- 
ment, or crossed by any member of his family, — and he was 
very touchy, — it became so shrill and indistinct that it 
pierced the ear without being in the least intelligible. In 
those paroxysms he did not walk, but sprung from place to 
place like a grasshopper, with unlooked-for agility, avoiding 
the chairs, and tables, and other movables, with great dex- 
terity. I often thought he would have broken what ever came 
in his way ; but although his erratic orbit was small, he per- 
formed his evolutions with great precision and security. His 
general temper, however, was very kind, humane, and good- 
humoured, and he seldom remained long under the influence 
of passion. His character, both as a man and a merchant, 
was unimpeachable, and, indeed, proverbial in the place. His 
better half appeared to be some years older, and also a good 
deal of an original. She was a little short thick woman ; but, 
stout as she was when I had the honour of an embrace, she 
must have been once much stouter, for her skin appeared, 
from the colour and texture, to have come to her at second- 
hand, and to have originally belonged to a much larger per- 
son, for it bagged and hung in flaps about her jowls and 
bosom, like an ill-cut maintopsail, which sits clumsily about 
the clews. I think I could have reefed her to advantage, be- 
low the chin. 

Her usual dress was a shift, with a whole sailroom of frills 
about the sleeves and bosom, and a heavy pink tafleta petti- 
coat, (gowns being only worn by these fair ones as you put 
on a great coat, that is, when they go abroad,) and a small 
round apron like a flap of black silk. Over these she wore 
a Spanish aroba, or 251bs. weight of gold chains, saints, and 
crucifixes, and a large black velvet patch, of the size of a 
wafer, on each temple, which I found, by the by, to be an 
ornament very much in fashion amongst the fair of Panama. 
Her hair, or rather the scanty remnant thereof, was plaited 
into two grizzled braids, with a black bow of ribbon at the 
end of each, and hung straight down her back. Like many 
excellent wives, she loved to circulate her spoused blood by 
a little well-timed opposition now and then; but she never 
tried her strength too far, and she always softened down in 
proportion as he waxed energetic and began to accelerate his 
motions, so that by the time he had given one or two hops, 
she had either fairly given in, or moved out . They had no 
children, but had in a manner adopted a little black creature 
about four years old, which, being a female, the lady had 
christened by the familiar diminutive of Diablita. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


463 

Another curiosity was the maternal aunt of Don Hombre- 
cillo, a little superannuated woman about four feet high, if 
she could have stood erect, but old age had long since bent 
her nearly double; she was on the verge of eighty-five years 
of age, and had outlived all her faculties. This poor old 
creature, in place of being respectably lodged and taken care 
of, was allowed to go about the house, tame, without any 
fixed abode, so far as I could learn; nor did she always meet 
with that attention, I am sorry to say it, from the family, or 
even from the servants, that she was entitled to from her ex- 
treme helplessness. She had a droll custom of eating all her 
meals walking, and it was her practice to move round the 
dinner-table in this her dotage, and to commit pranks, that, 
against my will, made me laugh, and even in despite of the 
feelings of pity and self-humiliation that arose in my bosom 
at the sight of such miserable imbecility in a fellow-creature. 
Thus keeping on the wing as I have described, it was her 
practice to cruise about behind the chairs, occasionally 
snatching pieces of food from before the guests, so slyly, that 
the first intimation of her intentions was the appearance of 
her yellow shrivelled bird-like claw in your plate. 

The brother of our host was a little stout man, but still 
very like Seiior Justo himself. For instance, I always gloried 
in likening the latter to a dried prune; then, to conceive of 
his plump brother, imagine him boiled, and so swell out the 
creases in his skin, and there you have him. 

This little dumpling was very asthmatic, and used to blow 
like a porpoise by the time he reached the top of the stairs. 
The only time he had ever been out of Panama was whilst 
he made a short visit to Lima, the wonders of which he used 
to chant unceasingly. But the continual cause of my annoy- 
ance — I fear I must write disgust — was the stepmother of 
mine host, a large fat dirty old woman. She had a pouch 
under her chin like a pelican, while her complexion, from 
the quantity of oil and foul feeding in which she delighted, 
was a greasy mahogany. She despised the unnatural luxuries 
of knives and forks, constantly devouring her meat with her 
fingers, whatever its consistency might be; if flesh, she tore 
it with both hands; if soup, she — bah! and, as the devil 
would have it, the venerable beauty chose to take a fancy to 
me. Oh, she was a balloon! I have often expected to see 
her rise to the roof. 

These polished personages may be called Senor Justo’s 
family, but it was occasionally increased by various others; 
none of whom, however, can I heave-to to describe at present. 

The day after my arrival, the operation of covering dollar 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


464 

boxes with wet hides had been going on in the dinner saloon 
the whole forenoon, which drove me forth to look about me; 
but I returned about half-past two, this being the hour of 
dinner, and found all the family, except mine hostess, assem- 
bled, and my appearance was the signal for dinner being 
ordered in. I may mention here, that this worthy family 
were all firmly impressed with the idea, that an Englishman 
was an ostrich, possessing a stomach capable of holding and 
digesting four times as much as any other person ; and under 
this belief they were so outrageously kind, that I was often 
literally stuffed to suffocation when I first came amongst 
them; and when at length I resolutely refused to be immo- 
lated after this fashion, they swore I was sick, or did not 
like my food, which was next door to insulting them. El 
Senor Justo’s fat dumpling of a brother thought medical 
advice ought to be taken, for when he was in Lima several 
seamen belonging to an English whaler had died, and he had 
remarked, the twaddling body, that they had invariably lost 
their appetites previous to their dissolution. 

But to return. Dinner being ordered, was promptly placed 
on the table, and mine host insisted on planting me at the 
foot thereof, while he sat on my left hand; so the party sat 
down; but the chair opposite, that ought to have been filled 
by Madama herself, was still vacant. 

“ A donde esta su ama” quoth Don Hombrecillo to one of 
the black waiting wenches. The girl said she did not know, 
but she would go and see. It is necessary to mention here 
that the worthy Senor’s counting-house was in a back build- 
ing, separated from the house that fronted the street by a 
narrow court; and in a small closet off this counting-house, 
my quatre had been rigged the previous night, and there had 
my luggage been deposited. Amongst other articles in my 
commissariat, there was a basket with half-a-dozen of cham- 
pagne, and some hock, and a bottle of brandy, that I had 
placed under Peter Mangrove’s care to comfort us in the 
wilderness. We all lay back in our chairs to wait for the 
lady of the house, but neither did she nor Tomassa, the name 
of the. handmaiden who had been despatched in search of her, 
seem inclined to make their appearance. Don Hombrecillo 
became impatient. 

“ J osefa” — to another of the servants — “ run and desire 
your mistress to come here immediately.” Away she flew, 
but neither did this second pigeon return. Mine host now 
lost his temper entirely, and spluttered out, as loud as he 
could roar, “ Somos comiendo, Panchita, somos comiendo; ” 
and forthwith, as if in spite, he began to fork up his food. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


465 

until he had nearly choked himself. Presently a short startled 
scream was heard from the counting-house, then a low sup- 
pressed laugh, then a loud shout, a long uproarious peal of 
laughter, and the two black servants came thundering across 
the wooden gangway or drawbridge, that connected the room 
where we sat with the outhouse, driven onwards by their 
mistress herself. They flew across the end of the dining- 
room into the small balcony fronting the lane, and began 
without ceremony to shout across the narrow street to a 
Carmelite priest, who was in a gallery of the opposite monas- 
tery, “ that their mistress was possessed 

Presently in danced our landlady, in propria persona, 
jumping, and screaming, and laughing, and snapping her 
fingers, and spinning round like a Turkish dervish, — “Mira 
el fandango, mira el fandango — dexa me baylar, dexa me bay- 
lar — See my fandango, see my fandango — let me dance — let 
me dance — ha, ha, ha.” 

“ Panchita,” screamed Justo, in extreme wrath, “ tu es loco, 
you are mad, — sit down, por amor de Dios — seas decente — be 
decent.” 

She continued gamboling about, “ J oven soy y virgin — I 
am young and a virgin — y tu Viejo diablo que queres tu , — 
and you, old devil, what do you want, eh? — Una virgin por 
Dios soy — I am young.” and seizing a boiled fowl from the 
dish, she let fly at her husband’s head, but missed him for- 
tunately; whereupon she made a regular grab at him with 
her paw, but he slid under the table, in all haste, roaring out, 
— “ Ave Maria, que es esso — manda por el padre — Send for 
the priest, y true una puerca, en donde echar el demonio, 
manda, manda — send for a priest, and a pig, into which the 

demon may be cast, — send ” " Dexa me, dexa me baylar ” 

— continued the old dame — •" tu no vale, bobo viejo,— you are 
of no use, you old blockhead — you are a forked radish, and 
not a man — let me catch you, let me catch you,” and here 
she made a second attempt, and got hold of his queue, by 
which she forcibly dragged him from beneath the table, until, 
fortunately, the ribbon that tied it slid off in her hand, and 
the little Senor instantly ran back to his burrow, with the 
speed of a rabbit, while his wife sung out, " Tu gastas cal- 
zones, eh? para que, damelos damelos, yo los quitare? ” and 
if she had caught the worthy man, I believe she would really 
have shaken him out of his garments, peeled him on the spot, 
and appropriated them to herself as her threat ran. “ I am a 
cat, a dog, and the devil— hoo — hoo — hoo — let me catch you, 
you miserable wretch, you forked radish, and if I don’t peel 
off your breeches, — I shall wear them, I shall wear them, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


466 

Ave Maria.” Here she threw herself into a chair, being com- 
pletely blown ; but after a gasp or two, she started to her legs 
again, dancing, and singing, and snapping her fingers, as if 
she had held castanets between them, " Venga — V eng a — dexa 
me baylar — Dankee, Dankee la — Dankee, Dankee la — mi gui- 
tarra — mi guitarra— Dankee, Dankee la — ha, ha, ha, — ” and 
away she trundled down stairs again, where she met the 
Iciest who had been sent for, in the lower hall, who happened 
to be a very handsome young man. Seeing the state she was 
in, and utterly unable to account for it, he bobbed, as she 
threw herself on him, eluded her embraces, and then bolted 
up stairs, followed by Mrs Potiphar, at full speed. — “Padre, 
father,” cried she, “ stop till I peel that forked radish there, 
and I will give you his breeches — Dankee, Dankee la.” All 
this while Don Hombrecillo was squeaking out from his lair, 
at the top of his pipe — •" Padre, padre, trae la puerca, venga 
la puerca — echar el demonio — echar el demonio — bring the 
pig, the pig, and cast out the devil.” — “ Mi guitarra, canta, 
canta y bayle, viejo diablito, canta 0 yo te matarras — Bring 
my guitar, dance, dance and sing, you little old devil you, or 
I’ll murder you, — Dankee, Dankee la.” 

In fine, I was at length obliged to lend a hand, and she 
was bodily laid hold of, and put to bed, where she soon fell 
into a profound sleep, and next morning awoke in her sound 
senses, totally unconscious of all that had passed, excepting 
that she remembered having taken a glass of the English- 
man’s small beer. 

Now the secret was out. The worthy woman, like most 
South American Spaniards, was distractedly fond of cervesa 
blanca, or small beer, and seeing the champagne bottles with 
their wired corks (beer requiring to be so secured in hot cli- 
mates) in my basket, she could not resist making free with 
a bottle, and, as I charitably concluded, small beer being a 
rarity in those countries, she did not find out the difference 
until it was made evident by the issue; however, I have it 
from authority, that she never afterwards ventured on any 
thing weaker than brandy, and from that hour, utterly 
eschewed that most dangerous liquor, cervesa blanca. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 467 


CHAPTER XVIII 

TROPICAL HIGH-JINKS 

“ Now, massa, pipe belay 

Wid your weary, weary Log, O ; 

Peter sick of him, me say. 

Ah ! sick more as one dog, O.” 

T he humble Petition of Peter Mangrove, Branch Pilot. 

Like all Portuguese towns, and most Spanish, Panama does 
not realize the idea which a stranger forms of it from the 
first view, as he descends from the savannah. The houses are 
generally built of wood, and three stories high : in the first or 
ground-floor, are the shops ; in the second, the merchants have 
their warehouses; and in the third, they usually live with 
their families. Those three different regions, sorry am I to 
say it, are all very dirty; indeed they may be said to be the 
positive, comparative, and superlative degrees of uncleanness. 
There are no glazed sashes in the windows, so that when it 
rains, and the shutters are closed, you are involved in utter 
darkness. The furniture is miserably scanty — some old-fash- 
ioned, high- backed, hard- wood chairs, with a profusion of tar- 
nished gilding; a table or two, in the same style, with a long 
grass hammock slung from corner to corner, intersecting the 
room diagonally, which, as they hang very low, about six 
inches only from the floor, it was not once only, that entering 
a house during the siesta, when the windows were darkened, 
I have tumbled headlong over a Don or Dona, taking his or 
her forenoon nap. But if movables were scarce, there was no 
paucity of silver dishes; basins, spitboxes, censers, and uten- 
sils of all shapes, descriptions, and sizes, of this precious 
metal, were scattered about without any order or regularity, 
while some nameless articles, also of silver, were thrust far 
out of their latitude, and shone conspicuously in the very 
centre of the rooms. The floors were usually either of hard- 
wood plank, ill kept, or terraced, or tiled; some indeed were 
flagged with marble, but this was rare ; and as for the luxury 
of a carpet, it was utterly unknown, the nearest approach to 
it being a grass mat, plaited prettily enough, called an estera. 
Round the walls of the house are usually hung a lot of dingy- 
faced, worm-eaten pictures of saints, and several crucifixes, 
which appear to be held in great veneration. The streets are 
paved, but exceedingly indifferently: and the frequent rains, 
or rather waterspouts, (and from the position of the place, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


468 

between the two vast oceans of the Atlantic and Pacific, they 
have considerably more than their own share of moisture,) 
washing away the soil and sand from between the stones, ren- 
der the footing for bestias of all kinds extremely insecure. 
There are five monasteries of different orders, and a convent 
of nuns, within the walls, most of which, I believe, are but 
poorly endowed. All these have handsome churches attached 
to them; that of La Merced is very splendid. The Cathedral 
is also a fine building, with some good pictures, and several 
lay relics of Pizarro, Almagro. and Vasco Nunez, that riveted 
my attention; while their fragments of the Vera Cruz, and 
arrow points that had quivered in the muscles of St Sebas- 
tian, were passed by as weak inventions of the enemy. 

The week after my arrival was a fast, the men eating only 
once in the twenty-four hours, (as for the women, who the deuce 
can tell how often a woman eats?) and during this period 
all the houses were stripped of their pictures, lamps, and or- 
naments, to dress out the churches, which were beautif uly il- 
luminated in the evenings, with a succession of friars 
performed service in them continually. High mass is, 
even to the eye of a heretic, a very splendid ceremony; and 
the music in this outlandish corner was unexpectedly good, 
every thing considered; in the church of La Merced, es- 
pecially, they had a very fine organ, and the congregation 
joined in the Jubilate with very good taste. By the way, in 
this same church, on the right of the high altar, there was a 
deep and lofty recess, covered with a thick black veil, in 
which stood concealed a figure of our Saviour, as large as 
life, hanging on a great cross, with the blood flowing from his 
wounds, and all kinds of horrible accompaniments. At a 
certain stage of the service, a drum was beaten by one of the 
brethren, upon which the veil was withdrawn, when the whole 
congregation prostrated themselves before the image, with 
every appearance of the greatest devotion. Even the passen- 
gers in the streets within ear-shot of the drum, stopped and 
uncovered themselves, and muttered a prayer; while the in- 
mates of the houses knelt, and crossed themselves, with all 
the externals of deep humility: although, very probably, they 
were at the moment calculating in their minds the profits 
on the last adventure from Kingston. One custom particu- 
larly struck me as being very beautiful. As the night shuts 
in, after a noisy prelude on all the old pots in the different 
steeples throughout the city, there is a dead pause; presently 
the great bell of the cathedral tolls slowly, once or twice, at 
which every person stops from his employment, whatever 
that may be, or wherever he may be, uncovers himself, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


469 

says a short prayer — all hands remaining still and silent for 
a minute or more, when the great bell tolls again, and once 
more every thing rolls on as usual. 

On the fourth evening of my residence in Panama, I had 
retired early to rest. My trusty knave, Peter Mangrove, and 
trustier still, my dog Sneezer, had both fallen asleep on the 
floor, at the foot of my bed, if the piece of machinery on 
which I lay deserved that name, when in the dead of night 
I was awakened by a slight noise at the door. I shook my- 
self and listened. Presently it opened, and the old woman 
that I have already described as part and portion of Don 
Hombrecillo Justo’s family, entered the room in her usual 
very scanty dress, with a lighted candle in her hand, led by 
a little naked negro child. I was curious to see what she 
would do, but I was not certain how the dog might relish the 
intrusion; so I put my hand over my quatre, and snapping 
my finger and thumb, Sneezer immediately rose and came to 
my bedside. I immediately judged, from the comical ex- 
pression of his face, as seen by the taper of the intruder, that 
he thought it was some piece of fun, for he walked quietly 
up, and confronting the old lady, deliberately took the can- 
dlestick out of her hand. The little black urchin thereupon 
began shouting, “ Ferro Demonio — Ferro Demonio "■ — and 
in their struggle to escape, she and the old lady tumbled 
headlong over the sleeping pilot, whereby the candle was 
extinguished, and we were left in utter darkness. I had there- 
fore nothing for it but to get out of bed, and go down to the 
cobbler, who lived in the entresol , to get a light. He had not 
gone to sleep, and I gave him no small alarm; indeed he was 
near absconding at my unseasonable intrusion, but at length I 
obtained the object of my visit, and returned to my room, 
when, on opening the door, I saw poor Mangrove lying on 
his back in the middle of the floor, with his legs and arms 
extended as if he had been on the rack, his eyes set, his mouth 
open, and every faculty benumbed by fear. At his feet sat 
the negro child, almost as much terrified as he was, and cry- 
ing most lamentably; while, at a little distance, sat the spectre 
of the old woman, scratching its head with the greatest com- 
posure, and exclaiming in Spanish, “ A little brandy for love 
of the Holy Virgin.” But the most curious part of it was 
the conduct of our old friend Sneezer. There he was sitting 
on end upon the table, grinning and shewing his ivory teeth, 
his eyes of jet sparkling like diamonds with fun and frolic, 
and evidently laughing after his fashion, like to split him- 
self, as he every now and then gave a large sweeping whisk 
of his tail, like a cat watching a mouse. At length I got the 


470 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


cobbler and his sable rib to take charge of the wanderers, and 
once more fell asleep. 

On my first arrival, I was somewhat surprised at my Span- 
ish acquaintances always putting up tUeir umbrellas when 
abroad after nightfall in the streets ; the city had its evil cus- 
toms, it seemed, as well as others of more note, with this dis- 
advantage, that no one had the discretion to sing out gardy- 
loo. 

There was another solemn fast about this time, in honour 
of a saint having had a tooth drawn, or some equally impor- 
tant event, and Don Hombrecillo and I had been at the even- 
ing service in the church of the convent of La Merced, situ- 
ated, as I have already mentioned, directly opposite his 
house, on the other side of the lane; and this being over, we 
were on the eve of returning home, when the flannel-rob6d 
superior came up and invited us into the refectory, where- 
unto, after some palaver, we agreed to adjourn, and had a 
good supper, and some bad Malaga wine, which, however, 
seemed to suit the palates of the Frailes, if taking a very de- 
cent quantity thereof were any proof of the same. Presently 
two of the lay brothers produced their fiddles, ancf as I was 
determined not to be outdone, I volunteered a song, and, as 
a key-stone to my politeness, sent to Don Hombrecillo’s for 
the residue of my brandy, which, coming after the bad wine, 
acted most cordially, opening the hearts of all hands like an 
oyster-knife, the Superior’s especially, who in turn drew 
on his private treasure also, when out came a large green 
vitrified earthen pipkin, one of those round-bottomed jars that 
won’t stand on end, but must perforce lie on their sides, as if 
it had been a type of the predicament in which some of us 
were to be placed ere long through its agency. The large 
cork, buried an inch deep in green wax, was withdrawn from 
the long neck, and out gurgled most capital old Xeres. So 
we worked away until we were all pretty well fou, and anon 
we began to dance ; and there were half-a-dozen friars, and old 
Justo and myself, in great glee, jumping and gamboling 
about, and making fools of ourselves after a very fantastic 
fashion — the witches in Macbeth as an illustration. 

At length, after being two months in Panama, and still no 
appearance of the Bandera, I received a letter from the Ad- 
miral, desiring me to rejoin the Wave immediately, as it was 
then known that the line-of-battle ship had returned to the 
River Plate. Like most young men, who have hearts, of 
flesh in their bosoms, I had in this short space begun to have 
my likings — may I not call them friendships? — in this, at 
the time I write of, most primitive community; and the idea 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


471 


of bidding farewell to it, most likely for ever, sank deep. 
However, I was His Majesty’s officer, and my services and obe- 
dience were his, although my feelings were my own ; and, ac- 
cordingly, stifling the latter, I prepared for my departure. 

On the very day whereon I was recalled, a sister of mine 
host’s — a most reverend mechanic, who had been fourteen 
years married without chick or child — was brought to bed, to 
the unutterable surprise of her spouse, and of all the little 
world in Panama, of a male infant. It had rained the whole 
day, notwithstanding which, and its being the only authenti- 
cated production ever published by the venerable young lady, 
the piccaniny was carried to the Franciscan church, a distance 
of half a mile at nine o’clock at night, through a perfect 
storm, to be christened, and the evil star of poor Mangrove 
rose high in the ascendant on the occasion. 

After the ceremony, I was returning home chilled with 
standing uncovered for an hour in a cold damp church, and 
walking very fast, in order to bring myself into heat, when, 
on turning a corner, I heard a sound of flutes and fiddles in 
the street, and from the number of lanterns and torches that 
accompanied it, I conjectured rightly that it was a Function 
of no small importance — no less, in fact, than a procession in 
honour of the Virgin. Poor Mangrove at this time was pat- 
tering close to my heels, and I could hear him chuckling and 
laughing to himself. 

“ What dis can be — I say, Sneezer ” — to his never-failing 
companion — “ what you tink? John Canoe, after Spanish 
fashion, it mosh be, eh ? 99 

The dog began to jump and gambol about. 

“ Ah,” continued the black pilot, “ no doubt it must be J ohn 
Canoe — I may dance — why not — eh? — oh, yes — I shall 
dance.” 

And as the music struck into rather a quicker tune at the 
moment, our ebony friend began to caper and jump about 
as if he had been in Jamaica at Christmas time, whereupon 
one of the choristers, or music boys, as they were called, a 
beautiful youth, about forty years of age, six feet high, and 
proportionably strong, without the least warning inconti- 
nently smote our amigo across the pate with a brazen saint 
that he carried, and felled him to the earth; indeed, if el 
Senor Justo had not been on the spot to interfere, we should 
have had a scene of it in all likelihood, as the instant the 
man delivered his blow. Sneezer’s jaws were at his throat, 
and had he not fortunately obeyed me, and let go at the sound 
of my voice, we might have had a double of Macaire and the 
dog of Montargis. As it was, the noble animal, before he let 


472 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


go, brought the culprit to the ground like a shot. I immedi- 
ately stood forward, and got the feud soldered as well as I 
could, in which the worthy Justo cordially lent me a hand. 

Next morning I rode out on my mule, to take my last dip 
in the Quebrada of the Loseria, a rapid in a beautiful little 
rivulet, distant from Panama about three miles, and a most 
exquisite bath it was. Let me describe it. After riding a 
couple of miles, and leaving the open savannah, you struck 
off sharp to the left through a narrow bridle-path into the 
wood, with an impervious forest on either hand, and pro- 
ceeding a mile farther, you came suddenly upon a small rush- 
ing, roaring, miniature cascade, where the pent-up waters 
leaped through a narrow gap in the limestone rock, that you 
could have stept across, down a tiny fall about a fathom high, 
into a round foaming buzzing basin, twenty feet in diameter, 
where the clear cool water bubbled and eddied round and 
round like a boiling cauldron, until it rushed away once more 
over the lower ledge, and again disappeared, murmuring be- 
neath the thick foliage of the rustling branches. The pool was 
about ten feet deep, and never was any thing more luxurious 
in a hot climate. 

After having performed my morning ablutions, and looking 
with a heavy heart at the sweet stream, and at every stock 
and stone, and shrub and tree, as objects I was never to see 
again, I trotted on, followed by Peter Mangrove, my man-at- 
arms, who bestrode his mule gallantly, to Don Hombrecillo’s 
pen, as the little man delighted to call his country-house, situ- 
ated about five miles from Panama, and which I was previ- 
ously informed had been given up to the use of his two 
maiden sisters. I got there about half-past ten in the fore- 
noon, and found that el Senor Justo had arrived before me. 
The situation was most beautiful; the house was embosomed 
in high wood ; the lowest spurs put forth by the gigantic trees 
being far above the ridge-pole of the wooden fabric. It was 
a low one-story building of unpainted timber, which, from the 
action of the weather, had been bleached on the outside into a 
whitish gray appearance, streaked by numerous green 
weather-stains, and raised about five feet on wooden posts, so 
that there was room for a flock of goats to shelter themselves 
below it. Access was had to the interior by a rickety rattle-trap 
of a wooden ladder, or stair of half-a-dozen steps, at the top 
of which you landed in an unceiled hall, with the rafters of 
the roof exposed, and the bare green vitrified tiles for a 
canopy, while a small sleeping apartment opened off each end. 
In the centre room there was no furniture except two grass 
hammocks slung across the room, and three or four old-fash- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


473 


ioned leather, or rather hide covered chairs, and an old rickety 
table; while overhead the tiles were displaced in one or two 
places, where the droppings from the leaves of the trees, and 
the sough of their rustling in the wind, came through. There 
were no inmates visible when we entered but a little negro 
girl, of whom el Sehor Hombrecillo asked “ where the Sehoras 
were ? ” — “ En cavilla said the urchin. Whereupon we 
turned back and proceeded to a little tiny stone chapel, little 
bigger than a dog-house, the smallest affair in the shape of a 
church I had ever seen, about a pistol-shot distant in the 
wood, where we found the two old ladies and Senor Justo’s 
natural son engaged at their devotions. On being aware of our 
presence, they made haste with the service, and, having fin- 
ished it, arose and embraced their brother, while the son ap- 
proached and kissed his hand. 

One of the ancient demoiselles appeared in bad health; nev- 
ertheless, they both gave us a very hearty reception, and 
prepared breakfast for us ; fricasseed fowls, a little too much 

of the lard, but still , fish from the neighbouring stream, 

&c. and I was doing the agreeable to the best of my poor abil- 
ity, when el Senor Justo asked me abruptly if I would go and 
bathe. A curious country, thought I, and a strange way peo- 
ple have of doing things. After a hearty meal, instead of 
giving you time to ruminate, and to allow the gastric juices 
to operate, away they lug you to be plumped over head and 
ears into a pool of ice-cold water. I rose, confoundedly against 
my inclination I will confess, and we proceeded to a small 
rOcky waterfall, where a man might wash himself certainly, 
but as to swimming, which is to me the grand desideratum , it 
was impossible, so I prowled away down the stream, to look 
out for a pool, and at last I was successful. On returning, as 
I only took a dip to swear by, the situation of my venerable 
Spanish ally was entertaining enough. There he was, the most 
forlorn little mandrake eye ever rested on, cowering like a 
large frog under the tiny cascade, stark naked, with his knees 
drawn up to his chin, and his gray queue gathered carefully 
under a green gourd or calabash that he wore on his head, 
while his natural son was dashing water in his face, as if the 
shower-bath overhead had not been sufficient. 

" Soy, bahando — soy bahando, capitan — fresco — fresquito” 
squealed Hombrecillo; while, splash between every exclama- 
tion, his dutiful son let fly a gourdful of agua at his head. 

That same evening we returned to Panama ; and next morn- 
ing, being the 22d of such a month, I left my kind friends, 
and, with Peter Mangrove, proceeded on our journey to 
Cruzes, mounted on two stout mules. I got there late in the 


474 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


evening, the road, from the heavy rains, being in sad condi- 
tion; but next morning the recua, or convoy of silver, which 
was to follow me for shipment on merchants’ account to 
Kingston, had not arrived. Presently I received a letter from 
Don Justo, sent express, to intimate that the muleteers had 
proceeded immediately after we had started for about a mile 
beyond the suburbs, where they were stopped by the officer of 
a kind of military post or barrier, under pretence of the pass- 
port being irregular ; and this difficulty was no sooner cleared 
up, than the accounts of a bull-fight, that was unexpectedly to 
take place that forenoon, reached them, when the whole bunch, 
half drunk as they were, started off to Panama again, leaving 
the money with the soldiers; nor would they return, or be 
prevailed on to proceed, until the following morning. How- 
ever, on the 24th, at noon, the money did arrive, which was 
immediately embarked on board of a large canoe that I had 
provided ; and, having shipped a beautiful little mule also, of 
which I had made a purchase at Panama, we proceeded down 
the river to the village of Gorgona, where we slept. My apart- 
ment was rather a primitive concern. It was simply a roof or 
shed, thatched with palm-tree leaves, about twelve feet long 
by eight broad, and supported on four upright posts at the 
corners, the eaves being about six feet high. Under this I 
slung my grass hammock transversely from corner to corner, 
tricing it well up to the rafters, so that it hung about five feet 
from the ground; while beneath Mangrove lit a fire, for the 
twofold purpose, as it struck me, of driving off the musqui- 
toes, and converting his Majesty’s officer into ham or hung 
beef ; so after having made mulo fast to one of the posts, with 
a bundle of malojo , or the green stems of Indian corn or 
maize, under his nose, he borrowed a plank from a neighbour- 
ing hut, and laid himself down on it at full length, covered up 
with a blanket, as if he had been a corpse, and soon fell fast 
asleep. As for Sneezer, he lay with his black muzzle resting 
on his fore paws, which were thrust out straight before him, 
until they almost stirred up the white embers of the fire ; with 
his eyes shut, and apparently asleep, but from the constant ner- 
vous twitchings and pricking up of his ears, and his haunches 
being gathered up w r ell under him, and a small quick switch of 
his tail now and then, it was evident he was broad awake, and 
considered himself on duty. All continued quiet and silent 
in our bivouac until midnight, however, except the rushing of 
the river hard by, when I was awakened by the shaking of 
tbe shed from the violent struggles of mulo to break loose, 
his strong tremblings thrilling along the taught cord that held 
him, down the lanyard of my hammock to my neck, as he drew 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


475 


himself in the intervals of his struggles as far back as he 
could, proving that the poor brute suffered under a paroxysm 
of fear. “ What noise is that ? ” I roused myself. It was re- 
peated. It was a wild cry, or rather a loud shrill mew, gradu- 
ually sinking into a deep growl. “What the deuce is that. 
Sneezer ? ” said I. The dog made no answer, but merely 
wagged his tail once, as if he had said, “ Wait a bit now, mas- 
ter ; you shall see how well I shall acquit myself, for this is in 
my way.” Ten yards from the shed under which I slept, there 
was a pig sty, surrounded by a sort of tiny stockade a fathom 
high, made of split cane, wove into wicker-work between up- 
right rails sunk into the ground; and by the clear moonlight 
I could, as I lay in my hammock, see an animal larger than an 
English bull-dog, but with the stealthy pace of the cat, crawl 
on in a crouching attitude until within ten feet of the sty, 
when it stopped, looked round, and then drew itself back, and 
made a scrambling jump against the cane defence, hooking 
on to the top of it by its fore paws, the claws of its hind feet 
scratching and rasping against the dry cane splits, until it 
had gathered its legs into a bunch, like the aforesaid puss, on 
the top of the enclosure; from which elevation the creature 
seemed to be reconnoitring the unclean beasts within. I 
grasped my pistols. Mangrove was still sound asleep. The 
struggles of mulo increased; I could hear the sweat raining off 
him; but Sneezer, to my great surprise, remained motionless 
as before. We now heard the alarmed grunts, and occasion- 
ally a sharp squeak, from the piggery, as if the beauties had 
only now become aware of the vicinity of their dangerous 
neighbour, who, having apparently made his selection, sud- 
denly dropped down nmongst them; when mulo burst from his 
fastenings with a yell, enough to frighten the devil, tearing 
away the upright to which the lanyard of my hammock was 
made fast, whereby I was pitched like a shot right down on 
Mangrove’s corpus, while a volley of grunting and squeaking 
split the sky, such as I never heard before; in the very nick. 
Sneezer, starting from his lair, with a loud bark, sprang at a 
bound into the enclosure, which he topped like a first-rate 
hunter; and Peter Mangrove awakening all of a heap from my 
falling on him, jump&l upon his feet as noisy as the rest. 

“ Garamighty in a tap — wurra all dis — my tomach bruise 
home to my backbone like one pancake; ” and, while the short 
fierce bark of the noble dog was blended with the agonized 
cry of the gatto del monte, the shrill treble of the poor porkers 
rose high above both, and mulo was galloping through the vil- 
lage with the post after him, like a dog with a pan at his tail, 
making the most unearthly noises ; for it was neither bray nor 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


476 

neigh. The villagers ran out of their huts, headed by the 
padre cura , and all was commotion and uproar. Lights were 
procured. The noise in the sty continued, and Mangrove, the 
warm-hearted creature, unsheathing his knife, clambered over 
the fence to the rescue of his four-footed ally, and disap- 
peared, shouting, “ Sneezer often fight for Peter, so Peter now 
will fight for he ; ” and soon began to blend his shouts with the 
cries of the enraged beasts within. At length the mania 
spread to me upon hearing the poor fellow shout, “ Tiger here, 
captain — tiger here — tiger — too many for we — Lud-a-mercy — 
tiger too many for we, sir — if you no help we, we shall be 
torn in piece.” Then a violent struggle, and a renewal of the 
uproar, and of the barking, and yelling, and squeaking. It 
was now no joke; the life of a fellow-creature was at stake. 
So I scrambled up after the pilot to the top of the fence, with 
a loaded pistol in my hand, a young active Spaniard following 
with a large brown wax candle, that burned like a torch ; and 
looking down on the melee below, there Sneezer lay with the 
throat of the leopard in his jaws, evidently much exhausted, 
but still giving the creature a cruel shake now and then, while 
Mangrove was endeavouring to throttle the brute with his 
bare hands. As for the poor pigs, they were all huddled to- 
gether, squeaking and grunting most melodiously in the cor- 
ner. I held down the light. “ Now, Peter, cut his throat, man 
■ — cut his throat.” 

Mangrove, the moment he saw where he was, drew his knife 
across the leopard’s weasand, and killed him on the spot. The 
glorious dog, the very instant he felt he had a dead antago- 
nist in his fangs, let go his hold, and making a jump with all 
his remaining strength, for he was bleeding much, and terri- 
bly torn, I caught him by the nape of the neck, and, in my at- 
tempt to lift him over and place him on the outside, down I 
went, dog and all, amongst the pigs, upon the bloody carcass ; 
out of which mess I was gathered by the cura and the stand- 
ers-by in a very beautiful condition; for, what between the 
filth of the sty and blood of the leopard, and so forth, I was 
not altogether a fit subject for a side-box at the Opera. 

This same tiger or leopard had committed great depreda- 
tions in the neighbourhood for months before, but he had al- 
ways escaped, although he had been repeatedly wounded; so 
Peter and I became as great men for the two hours longer that 
we sojourned in Gorgona, as if we had killed the dragon of 
Want.ley. Our quarry was indeed a noble animal, nearly seven 
feet from the nose to the tip of the tail. At davdawn, having 
purchased his skin for three dollars, I shoved off; and, on the 
25th, at five in the evening, having had a strong current with 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


477 

us the whole way down, we arrived at Chagres once more. I 
found a boat from the Wave waiting for me, and to prevent 
unnecessary delay, I resolved to proceed with the canoe along 
the coast to Porto-Bello, as there was a strong weather current 
running, and little wind ; and, accordingly, we proceeded next 
morning, with the canoe in tow, but towards the afternoon it 
came on to blow, which forced us into a small cove, where we 
remained for the night in a very uncomfortable situation, as 
the awning proved an indifferent shelter from the rain, that 
descended in torrents. 

We had made ourselves as snug as it was possible to be in 
such weather, under an awning of boat sails, and had kindled 
a fire in a tub at the bottom of the boat, at which we had made 
ready some slices of beef, and roasted some yams, and were, 
all hands, master and men, making ourselves comfortable 
with a glass of grog, when the warp by which we rode sud- 
denly parted, from a puff of wind that eddied down on us over 
the little cape, and before we could get the oars out, we were 
tailing on the beach at the opposite side of the small bay. 
However, we soon regained our original position, by which 
time all was calm again where we lay; and this time, we sent 
the end of the line ashore, making it fast round a tree, and 
once more rode in safety. But I could not sleep, and the rain 
having ceased, the clouds broke away, and the moon once more 
shone out cold, bright, and clear. I had stepped forward from 
under the temporary awning, and was standing on the thwart, 
looking out to windward, endeavouring to judge of the 
weather at sea, and debating in my own mind whether it 
would be prudent to weigh before daylight, or remain where 
we were. But all in the offing, beyond the small headland, un- 
der the lee of which we lay, was dark and stormy water, and 
white-crested howling waves, although our snug little bay con- 
tinued placid and clear, with the moonbeams dancing on the 
twinkling ripple, that was lap, lapping, and sparkling like sil- 
ver on the snow-white beach of sand and broken shells ; while 
the hills on shore that rose high and abrupt close-to, were cov- 
ered with thick jungle, from which, here and there, a pinnacle 
of naked gray rock would shoot up like a gigantic spectre, or a 
tall tree would cast its long black shadow over the waving sea 
of green leaves that undulated in the breeze beneath. 

As the wind was veering about rather capriciously, I had 
cast my eye anxiously along the warp, to see how it bore the 
strain, when to my surprise it appeared to thicken at the end 
next the tree, and presently something like a screw, about a 
foot long, that occasionally shone like glass in the moonlight, 
began to move along the taught line, with a spiral motion. All 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


478 

this time one of the boys was fast asleep, resting on his folded 
arms on the gunwale, his head having dropt down on the stem 
of the boat ; but one of the Spanish bogas in the canoe, which 
was anchored close to us, seeing me, gazing at something, now 
looked in the same direction; the instant he caught the ob- 
ject, he thumped with his palms on the side of the canoe, ex- 
claiming, in a loud, alarmed tone — “ Culebra — culebra , — a 
snake, a snake,” — on which the reptile made a sudden and 
rapid slide down the line towards the bow of the boat where 
the poor lad was sleeping, and immediately afterwards 
dropped into the sea. 

The sailor rose and walked aft, as if nothing had happened, 
amongst his messmates, who had been alarmed by the cries of 
the Spanish canoeman, and I was thinking little of the mat- 
ter, when I heard some anxious whispering amongst them. 

“ Fred,” said one of the men, “ what is wrong, that you 
breathe so hard ? ” 

“ Why, boy, what ails you ? ” said another. 

“ Something has stung me,” at length said the poor little 
fellow, speaking thick, as if he had laboured under sore throat. 
The truth flashed on me, a candle was lit, and, on looking at 
him, he appeared stunned, complained of cold, and suddenly 
assumed a wild startled look. 

He evinced great anxiety and restlessness, accompanied by 
a sudden and severe 'prostration of strength — still continuing 
to complain of great and increasing cold and chilliness, but 
he did not shiver. As yet no part of his body was swollen, ex- 
cept very slightly about the wound ; however, there was a rap- 
idly increasing rigidity of the muscles of the neck and throat, 
and within half an hour after he was bit, he was utterly un- 
able to swallow even liquids. The small whip-snake, the most 
deadly asp in the whole list of noxious reptiles peculiar to 
South America, was not above fourteen inches long; it had 
made four small punctures with its fangs, right over the left 
jugular vein, about an inch below the chin. There was no 
blood oozing from them, but a circle about the size of a crown- 
piece of dark red surrounded them, gradually melting into 
blue at the outer rim, which again became fainter and fainter, 
until it disappeared in the natural colour of the skin. By the 
advice of the Spanish boatmen, we applied an embrocation of 
the leaves of the palma Christi, or castor-oil nut, as hot as 
the lad could bear it, but we had neither oil nor hot milk to 
give intern ally, both of which, they informed us, often proved 
specifics. Bather than lie at anchor until morning, under 
these melancholy circumstances, I shoved out into the rough 
water, but we made little of it, and when the day broke, I saw 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


479 

that the poor fellow’s fate was sealed. His voice^had become 
inarticulate, the coldness had increased, all motion in the ex- 
tremities had ceased, the legs and arms became quite stiff, the 
respiration slow and difficult, as if the blood had coagulated, 
and could no longer circulate through the heart ; or as if, from 
some unaccountable effect of the poison on the nerves, the 
action of it had been impeded; — still the poor little fellow was 
perfectly sensible, and his eye bright and restless. His breath- 
ing became still more interrupted — he could no longer be said 
to breathe, but gasped — and in another half hour, like a 
steam-engine when the fire is withdrawn, the strokes, or con- 
tractions and expansions of his heart, became slower and 
slower, until they ceased altogether. 

Prom the very moment of his death, the body began rapidly 
to swell, and become discoloured ; the face and neck, especially 
were nearly as black as ink within half an hour of it, when 
blood began to flow from the mouth, and other symptoms of 
rapid decomposition succeeded each other so fast, that by nine 
in the morning we had to sew him up in a boat sail, with a 
large stone, and launch the body into the sea. 

We continued to struggle against the breeze until eleven 
o’clock in the forenoon of the 27th, when the wind again in- 
creased to such a pitch, that we had to cast off our tow, and 
leave her on the coast, under the charge of little Reefpoint, 
with instructions to remain in the creek where he was, until 
the schooner picked him up; we then pushed once more 
through the surf for Porto-Bello, where we arrived in safety 
at five p.m. Next morning at daylight we got under weigh, 
and stood down for the canoe, and having received the money 
on board, and the Spaniards who accompanied it, and poor 
mulo, we made sail for Kingston, Jamaica, and on the 4th of 
the following month were off Carthagena once more, having 
been delayed by calms and light winds. The captain of the 
port shoved out to us, and I immediately recognized him as 
the officer to whom poor old Deadeye once gave a deuced 
fright, when we were off the town, in the old Torch, during 
the siege, shortly before she foundered in the hurricane; but 
in the present instance he was all civility. On his departure 
we made sail, and arrived at Kingston, safe and sound, in the 
unusually short passage of sixty hours from the time we left 
Carthagena. 

Here the first thing I did was to call on some of my old 
friends, with one of whom I found a letter lying for me from 
Mr Bang, requesting a visit at his domicile in St Thomas in 
the Vale so soon as I arrived; and through the extreme kind- 
ness of my Kingston allies, I had, on my intention of accept- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


480 

ing it being known, at least half a dozen gigs offered to me, 
with servants and horses, and I don’t know what all. I made 
my selection, and had arranged to start at day-dawn next 
morning, when a cousin of mine, young Palma, came in where 
I was dining, and said that his mother and the family had 
arrived in town that very day, and were bound on a pic-nic 
party next morning to visit the Falls in St David’s. I agreed 
to go, and to postpone my visit to friend Aaron for the pres- 
ent; and very splendid scenery did we see; but as I had seen 
the Falls of Niagara, of course I was not astonished. There 
was a favourite haunt and cave of Three-fingered Jack shewn 
to us in the neighbourhood, very picturesque and romantic, 
and all that sort of thing; but I was escorting my Mary, and 
the fine scenery and roaring waters were at this time thrown 
away on me. However, there was one incident amusing 
enough. Mary and I had wandered away from the rest of the 
party, about a mile above the cascade, where the river was 
quiet and still, and divided into several tiny streams or pools, 
by huge stones that had rolled from the precipitous banks 
down into its channel ; when, on turning an angle of the rock, 
we came unexpectedly on my old ally Whiffle, with a cigar in 
his mouth, seated on a cane-bottomed chair, close to the brink 
of the water, with a little low table at his right hand, on which 
stood a plate of cold meat, over which his black servant held 
a green branch, with which he was brushing the fiies away, 
while a large rummer of cold brandy grog was immersed in 
the pool at his feet, covered up with a cool plantain leaf. He 
held a long fishing-rod in his hands, eighteen feet at the short- 
est, fit to catch salmon with, which he had to keep nearly up- 
right, in order to let his hook drop into the pool, which was 
not above five feet wide — why he did not heave it by hand I 
am sure I cannot tell ; indeed, I would as soon have thought of 
angling for gold-fish in my aunt’s glass globe — and there he 
sat fishing with great complacency. However, he seemed a lit- 
tle put out when we came up. “ Ah, Tom, how do you do? — 
Miss, your most obsequious — No rain — mullet deucedly shy, 
Tom — ah ! what a glorious nibble — there — there again — I have 
him ; ” and sure enough, he had hooked a fine mountain mul- 
let, weighing about a pound and a half, and in the ecstasy of 
the moment, and his hurry to land him handsomely, he regu~ 
larly capsized in his chair, upset the rummer of brandy grog, 
and table and all the rest of it. We had a good laugh, and then 
rejoined our party, and that evening we all sojourned at 
Lucky Valley, a splendid coffee estate, with a most excellent 
man and an exceedingly obliging fellow for a landlord. 

Next day we took a long ride, to visit a German gentleman. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


481 

who had succeeded in a wonderful manner in taming fish. He 
received us very hospitably, and after lunch we all proceeded 
to his garden, through which ran a beautiful stream of the 
clearest water. It was about four feet broad, and a foot deep, 
where it entered the garden, but gradually widened in conse- 
quence of a dam with stakes at the top having been erected at 
the lower part of it, until it became a pool twelve feet .broad, 
and four feet deep, of the most beautiful crystal-clear water 
that can be imagined, while the margin on both sides was 
fringed with the fairest flowers that Europe or the tropics 
could afford. We all peered into the stream, but could see 
nothing except an occasional glance of a white scale or fin now 
and then. — “ Liverpool ! ” shouted the old German who was 
doing the honours, — “ Liverpool, come bring de food for de 
fis.” Liverpool, a respectable-looking negro, approached, and 
stooping down at the water’s edge, held a piece of roasted 
plantain close to the surface of it. In an instant, upwards of 
a hundred mullet, large fine fish, some of them above a foot 
long, rushed from out the dark clear depths of the quiet pool, 
and jumped, and walloped, and struggled for the food, al- 
though the whole party were standing close by. Several of the 
ladies afterwards tried their hand, and the fish, although not 
apparently quite so confident, after a tack here and a tack 
there, always in the end came close to and made a grab at 
what was held to them. 

That evening I returned to Kingston, where I found an 
order lying for me to repair as second-lieutenant on board 
the Firebrand once more, and to resign the command of 
the Wave to no less a man than Moses Yerk, esquire; and a 
happy man was Moses, and a gallant fellow he proved himself 
in her, and earned laurels and good freights of specie, and is 
now comfortably domiciled amongst his friends. 

The only two Waves, that I successfully made interest at 
their own request to get back with me, were Tailtackle and lit- 
tle Reefpoint. 

Time wore on — days, and weeks, and months passed away, 
during which we were almost constantly at sea, but incidents 
worth relating had grown scarce, as we were now in piping 
times of peace, when even a stray pirate had become a rarity, 
and a luxury denied to all but the small craft people. On one 
of our cruises, however, we had been working up all morning 
to the southward of the Pedro shoals, with the wind strong at 
east, a hard fiery sea-breeze. We had hove about, some three 
hours before, and were standing in towards the land, on the 
starboard tack, when the look-out at the masthead hailed. 


482 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ The water shoals on the weather bow, sir ; ” and presently, 
“Breakers right a-head.” 

“ Very well,” I replied — “ all right.” 

“ We are nearing the reefs, sir,” said I, walking aft and ad- 
dressing Captain Transom ; “ shall we stand by to go about, 
sir ? ” 

“ Certainly — heave in stays as soon as you like, Mr* Crin- 
gle.” 

At this moment the man aloft again sung out — “ There is 
a wreck on the weathermost point of the long reef, sir.” 

“ Ay ! what does she look like ? ” 

“ I see the stumps of two lower masts, but the bowsprit is 
gone, sir — I think she must be a schooner or a brig, sir.” 

The captain was standing by, and looked up to me, as I 
stood on the long eighteen at the weather-gangway. 

“ Is the breeze not too strong, Mr Cringle ? ” 

I glanced my eye over the side — “ Why, no, sir — a boat will 
live well enough — there is not so much sea in shore here.” 

“ Very well — haul the courses up, and heave to.” 

It was done. 

“ Pipe away the yawlers, boatswain’s mate.” 

The boat over the lee-quarter was lowered, and I was sent 
to reconnoitre the object that had attracted our attention. As 
we approached, we passed the floating swollen carcasses of 
several bullocks, and some pieces of wreck; and getting into 
smooth water, under the lee of the reef, we pulled up under 
the stern of the shattered hull which lay across it, and scram- 
bled on deck by the boat tackles, that hung from the davits, as 
if the jolly-boat had recently been lowered. The vessel was a 
large Spanish schooner, apparently about one hundred and 
eighty tons burden, nearly new; every thing strong and well 
fitted about her, with a beautiful spacious flush-deck, sur- 
rounded by high solid bulwarks. All the boats had disap- 
peared ; they might either have been carried away by the crew, 
or washed overboard by the sea. Both masts were gone about 
ten feet above the deck; which, with the whole of their spars 
and canvass, and the wreck of the bowsprit, were lumbering 
and rattling against the lee-side of the vessel, and splashing 
about in the broken water, being still attached to the hull by 
the standing rigging, no part of which had been cut away. 
The mainsail, gaff-topsail, foresail, fore-topsail, fore-staysail, 
and jib were all set, so she must most likely have gone on the 
reef, either under a preps of canvass in the night, in ignorance 
of its vicinity, or by missing stays. 

She lay on her beam-ends across the coral rock, on which 
there was about three feet water where shallowest, and had 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


483 

fallen over to leeward, presenting her starboard broadside to 
the sea, which surged along it in a slanting direction, while 
the lee gunwale was under water. The boiling white breakers 
were dashing right against her bows, lifting them up with 
every send, and thundering them down again against the flint- 
hard coral spikes, with a loud gritting rumble; while every 
now and then the sea made a fair breach over them, flashing 
up over the whole deck aft to the taft’erel in a snow-storm of 
frothy flakes. Forward in the bows there lay, in one horrible 
fermenting and putrifying mass, the carcasses of about 
twenty bullocks, part of her deck-load of cattle, rotted into 
one hideous lump, with the individual bodies of the poor 
brutes almost obliterated and undistinguishable, while 
streams of decomposed animal matter were ever and anon 
flowing down to leeward, although as often washed away by 
the hissing waters. But how shall I describe the scene of hor- 
ror that presented itself in the after part of the vessel, under 
the lee of the weather-bulwarks ! 

There, lashed to the ring-bolts, and sheltered from the sun 
and sea, by a piece of canvass, stretched across a broken oar, 
lay, more than half naked, the dead bodies of an elderly fe- 
male, and three young women; one of the latter with two life- 
less children fastened by handkerchiefs to her waist, while 
each of the other two had the corpse of an infant firmly 
clasped in her arms. 

It was the dry season, and as they lay right in the wake of 
the windward ports, exposed to a thorough draft of air, and 
were defended from the sun and the spray, no putrefaction 
had taken place; the bodies looked like mummies, the 
shrunken muscles and wasted features being covered with a 
dry horny skin, like parchment; even the eyes remained full 
and round, as if they had been covered over with a hard dim 
scale. 

On looking down into the steerage, we saw another corpse, 
that of a tall young slip of a Spanish girl, surging about in 
the water, which reached nearly to the deck, with her long 
black hair floating and spread out all over her neck and bosom, 
but it was so offensive and decayed, that we were glad to look 
another way. There was no male corpse to be seen, which, 
coupled with the absence of the boats, evinced but too clearly 
that the crew had left the females, with their helpless infants, 
on the wreck to perish. There was a small round-house on the 
after part of the deck, in which we found three other women 
alive, but wasted to skeletons. We took them into the boat, 
but one died in getting her over the side; the other two we 
got on board, and I am glad to say that they both recovered. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


484 

For two days neither could speak; there seemed to be some 
rigidity about the throat and mouth that prevented them ; but 
at length the youngest — (the other was her servant) — a very 
handsome woman, became strong enough to tell us, “ that it 
was the schooner Caridad that we had boarded, bound from 
Kio de la Iiache to Savana la Mar, where she was to have dis- 
charged her deck-load of cattle, and afterwards to have pro- 
ceeded to Batabano, in Cuba. She had struck, as I surmised, 
in the night, about a fortnight before we fell in with her ; and 
next morning, the crew and male passengers took to the boats, 
which with difficulty contained them, leaving the women un- 
der a promise to come back that evening, with assistance from 
the shore, but they never appeared, nor were they ever after 
heard of.” And here the poor thing cried as if her heart 
would break. “ Even my own J uan, my husband, left me and 
my child to perish on the wreck. O God ! O God ! I could not 
have left him — I could not have left him .” 

There had been three families on board, with their servants, 
who were emigrating to Cuba, all of w r hom had been aban- 
doned .by the males, who, as already related, must in all hu- 
man probability have perished after their unmanly desertion. 
As the whole of the provisions were under water, and could 
not be got at, the survivors had subsisted on raw flesh so long 
as they had strength to cut it, or power to swallow it; what 
made the xioor creature tell it, I cannot imagine, if it were not 
to give the most vivid picture possible, in her conception, of 
their loneliness and desolation, but she said, “ no sea-bird even 
ever came near us.” 

It were harrowing to repeat the heart-rending description, 
given by her, of the sickening of the heart when the first night 
fell, and still no tidings of the boats ; the second sun set — still 
the horizon was speckless ; the next dreary day wore to an end, 
and three innocent helpless children were dead corpses; on 
the fourth, madness seized on their mothers, and — but I will 
not dwell on such horrors. 

During these manifold goings and comings, I naturally 
enlarged the circle of my acquaintance in the island, espe- 
cially in Kingston, the mercantile capital ; and often does my 
heart glow within me, when the scenes I have witnessed in 
that land of fun and fever rise up before me after the lapse 
of many years, under the influence of a good fire and a glass 
of old Madeira. Take the following example of Jamaica 
High-Jinks as one of many. On a certain occasion I had gone 
to dine with Mr Isaac Shingle, an extensive American mer- 
chant, and a most estimable man, who considerately sent his 
gig down to the wherry-wharf for me. At six o’clock I ar- 


TOM CRINGLE'S LOG 


485 

rived at my friend’s mansion, situated in the upper part of the 
town, a spacious one-story house, overshadowed by two fine old 
trees, and situated back from the street about ten yards; the 
intervening space being laid out in a beautiful little garden, 
raised considerably above the level of the adjoining thorough- 
fare, from which it was divided by a low parapet wall, sur- 
mounted by a green painted wooden railing. There was a flight 
of six brick steps from the street to the garden, and you as- 
cended from the latter to the house itself, which was raised on 
brick pillars a fathom high, by another stair of eight broad 
marble slabs. The usual verandah, or piazza, ran along the 
whole front, beyond which you entered a large and lofty, but 
very darksome hall, answering to our European drawing- 
room, into which the bed-rooms opened on each side. It did 
strike me at first as odd, that the principal room in the house 
should be a dark dungeon of a place, with nothing but bor- 
rowed lights, until I again recollected that darkness and cool- 
ness were convertible terms within the tropics. Advancing 
through this room, you entered, by a pair of folding doors, on 
a very handsome dining-room, situated in what I believe is 
called a back jamb, a sort of outrigger to the house, fitted all 
round with moveable blinds, or jealousies , and open like a 
lantern to all the winds of heaven, except the west, in which 
direction the main body of the house warded off the sickening 
beams of the setting sun. And how sickening they are, let the 
weary sentries under the pillars of the Jamaica viceroy’s 
house in Spanish Town tell, reflected as they were there from 
the hot brick walls of the palace. 

This room again communicated with the back-yard, in 
which the negro houses, kitchen, and other offices were situ- 
ated, by a wooden stair of the same elevation as that in front. 
Here the table was laid for dinner, covered with the finest 
diaper, and snow-white napkins, and silver wine-coolers, and 
silver forks, and fine steel, and cut glass, and cool green fin- 
ger-glasses with lime leaves floating within, and tall wax- 
lights shaded from the breeze in thin glass barrels, and an 
epergne filled with flowers, with a fragrant fresh-gathered 
lime in each of the small leaf -like branches, and salt-cellars 
with red peppers in them, &c. &c., all of which made the tout 
ensemble the most captivating imaginable to a hungry man. 

I found a large party assembled in the piazza and the dark 
hall, to whom I was introduced in due form. In J amaica, of 
all countries I ever w T as in, it is a most difficult matter for a 
stranger to ascertain the real names of the guests at a bach- 
elor dinner like the present, where all the parties were inti- 
mate — there were so many soubriquets amongst them; for in- 


486 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


stance, a highly respectable merchant of the place, with some 
fine young women for daughters, by the way, from the pe- 
culiarity of a prominent front tooth, was generally known as 
the Grand Duke of Tuscany; while an equally respectable 
elderly man, with a slight touch of paralysis in his head, was 
christened Old Steady in the West, because he never kept his 
head still ; so, whether some of the names of the present party 
were real or fictitious, I really cannot tell. 

First, there was Mr Seco, a very neat gentleman-like little 
man, perfectly well-bred, and full of French phrases. Then 
came Mr Eschylus Stave, a tall, raw-boned, well-informed 
personage; a bit of a quiz on occasion, but withal a pleasant 
fellow. Mr Isaac Shingle, mine host, a sallow, sharp, hatchet- 
faced, small homo, but warm-hearted and kind, as I often ex- 
perienced during my sojourn in the west, only sometimes a 
little peppery and argumentative. Then came Mr Jacob Bum- 
ble, a sleek fat-pated Scotchman. Next I was introduced to 
Mr Alonzo Smoothpate, a very handsome fellow, with an un- 
common share of natural good-breeding and politeness. Again 
I clapper-clawed, according to the fashion of the country, a 
violent shake of the paw being the J amaica infeftment to ac- 
quaintanceship, with Mr Percales, whom I took for a foreign 
J ew somehow or other at first, from his uncommon name, un- 
til I heard him speak, and perceived he was an Englishman; 
indeed, his fresh complexion, very neat person, and gentle- 
man-like deportment, when I had time to reflect, would of 
themselves have disconnected him from all kindred with the 
sons of Levi. Then came a long, dark-complexioned, curly- 
pated slip of a lad, with white teeth and high strongly marked 
features, considerably pitted with small-pox. He seemed the 
great promoter of fun and wickedness in the party, and was 
familiarly addressed as the Don, although I believe his real 
name was Mr Lucifer Longtram. Then there was Mr Aspen 
Tremble, a fresh-looking, pleasant, well-informed man, but 
withal a little nervous, his cheeks quivering when he spoke 
like shapes of calf’s-foot jelly; after him came an exceedingly 
polite old gentleman, wearing hair powder and a queue, 
ycleped Nicodemus; and a very devil of a little chap of the 
name of Rubiochico, a great ally in wickedness with Master 
Longtram ; the last in this eventful history being a staid, se- 
date-looking, elderly-young man, of the name of Onyx Steady, 
an extensive foreign merchant, with a species of dry caustic 
readiness about him that was dangerous enough. — We sat 
down, Isaac Shingle doing the honours, confronted by Eschy- 
lus Stave, and all was right, and smooth, and pleasant, and in 
no way different from a party of well-bred men in England. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


487 

When the second course appeared, I noticed that the 
blackie, who brought in two nice tender little ducklings, with 
the concomitant green peas, both just come in season, was 
chuckling and grinning, and shewing his white teeth most ve- 
hemently, as he placed both dishes right under Jacob Bum- 
ble’s nose. Shingle and Longtram exchanged looks. I saw 
there was some mischief toward, and presently, as if by some 
preconcerted signal, every body asked for duck, duck, duck. 
Bumble, with whom the dish was a prime favourite, carved 
away with a most stern countenance, until he had got half 
through the second bird, when some unpleasant recollection 
seemed to come over him, and his countenance fell; and lying 
back on his chair, he gave a deep sigh. But, “ Mr 
Bumble, that breast, if you please — thank you.” “ Mr Bumble, 
that back, if you please,” — succeeded each other rapidly, until 
all that remained of the last of the ducklings was a beautiful 
little leg, which, under cover of the following story, Jacob 
cannily smuggled on to his own plate. 

“ Why, gentlemen, a most remarkable circumstance hap- 
pened to me while dressing for dinner. You all know I am 
next-door neighbour to our friend Shingle — our premises 
being only divided by a brick wall, about eight feet high. 
Well, my dressing-room window looks out on this wall, be- 
tween which and the house, I have my duck-pen •” 

‘‘ Your what ? ” said I. 

“ My poultry-yard — as I like to see the creatures fed my- 
self — and 1 was particularly admiring two beautiful duck- 
lings which I had been carefully fattening for a whole week ” 
— (here our friend’s voice shook, and a tear glistened in his 
eye) — “ when first one and then another jumped out of the lit- 
tle pond, and successively made a grab at something which I 
could not see, and immediately began to shake their wings, 
and struggle with their feet, as if they were dancing, until, 
as with one accord — deuce take me! ” — (here he almost blub- 
bered aloud) — “ if they did not walk up the brick wall with all 
the deliberation in the world, merely helping themselves over 
the top by a small flafT of their wings; and where they have 
gone, none of Shingle’s people know.” 

“ I’ll trouble you for that leg, Julius,” said Longtram, at 
this juncture, to a servant, who whipped away the plate from 
under* Bumble’s arm, before he could prevent him, who Jooked 
after it as if it had been a pound of his own flesh. It seemed 
that Longtram, who had arrived rather early, had found a 
fishing-tackle in the piazza, and knowing . the localities of 
Bumble’s premises, as well as his peculiarities, he, by way of 
adding his quota to the entertainment, baited two hooks with 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


488 

pieces of raw potatoes, and throwing them over the wall, had, 
in conjunction with Julius the black, hooked up the two duck- 
lings out of the pen, to the amazement of Squire Bumble. 

By and by, as the evening wore on, I saw the Longtram lad 
making demonstrations to bring on a general drink, in which 
he was nobly seconded by Rubiochico; and, I grieve to say it, 
I was noways loath, nor indeed were any of the company. 
There had been a great deal of mirth and frolic during din- 
ner — all within proper bounds, however — but as the night 
made upon us, we set more sail — more, as it turned out, than 
some of us had ballast for — when lo ! towards ten of the clock, 
up started Mr Eschylus to give us a speech. His seat was at 
the bottom of the table, with the back of his chair close to the 
door that opened into the yard; and after he had got his 
breath out, on I forget what topic, he sat down, and lay back 
on his balanced chair, stretching out his long legs with great 
complacency. However, they did not prove a sufficient coun- 
terpoise to his very square shoulders, which, obeying the laws 
of gravitation, destroyed his equilibrium, and threw him a 
somersault, when exit Eschylus Stave, esquire, head foremost, 
with a formidable rumble-tumble and hurry-scurry, down the 
back steps, his long shanks disappearing last, and clipping be- 
tween us and the bright moon like a pair of flails. 

However, there was no damage done; and, after a good 
laugh, Stave’s own being loudest of all, the Don and Ru- 
biochico righted him, and helped him once more into his chair. 

Jacob Bumble now favoured us with a song, that sounded 
as if he had been barrelled up in a puncheon, and was can- 
tando through the bunghole; then Rubiochico sang, and the 
Don sang, and we all sang and bumpered away ; and Mr Seco 
got on the table, and gave us the newest quadrille step; and, 
in fine, we were all becoming dangerously drunk. Longtram, 
especially, had become uproarious beyond all bounds, and, get- 
ting up from his chair, he took a short run of a step or two, 
and sprang right over the table, whereby he smashed the 
epergne, full of fruit and flowers, scattering the contents all 
about like hail, and driving a volley of preserved limes like 
grapeshot, in all their syrup and stickiness, slap into my face 
— a stray one. spinning with a sloppy whit into Jacob Bum- 
ble’s open mouth as he sang, like a musket-ball into a winter 
turnip; while a fine preserved pine-apple flew bash on Isaac 
Shingle’s sharp snout, like the bursting of a shrapnel shell. 

“ D — n it,” hiccuped Shingle, “ won’t stand this any longer, 
by Ju- Ju- Jupiter ! Give over your practicals, Lucifer. Con- 
found it, Don, give over — do, now, you mad long-legged son 
of a gun ! ” Here the Don caught Shingle round the waist. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


489 

and whipping him bodily out of his chair, carried him, kick- 
ing and spurring, into the hall, now well lit up, and laid him 
011 a sofa, and then returning, coolly installed himself in his 
seat. 

In a little we heard the squeaking of a pig in the street, 
and our friend Shingle’s voice high in oath. I sallied forth 
to see the cause of the uproar, and found our host engaged in 
single combat with a drawn sword-stick that sparkled blue 
and bright in the moonbeam, his antagonist being a strong 
porker that he had taken for a town-guard, and had hemmed 
into a corner formed by the stair and the garden wall, which 
on being pressed, made a dash between his spindle-shanks, and 
fairly capsized him into my arms. I carried him back to his 
couch again; and, thinking it was high time to be off, as I 
saw that Smoothpate, and Steady, and Nicodemus, and the 
more composed part of the company, had already absconded, 
I seized my hat, and made sail in the direction of the former’s 
house, where I was to sleep, when that devil Longtram made 
up to me. 

“ Hillo, my little man of war — heave-to a bit, and take me 
with you. Why, what is that? what the deuce is that?” We 
were at this time staggering along under the dark piazza of a 
long line of low wooden houses, every now and then thunder- 
ing against the thin boards, or bulkheads, that constituted the 
side next the street, making, as we could distinctly hear, the 
inmates start and snort in the inside, as they turned them- 
selves in their beds. In the darkest part of the piazza, there 
was the figure of a man in the attitude of a telescope levelled 
on its stand, with its head, as it were, counter-sunk or mor- 
ticed into the wooden partition. Tipsy as we both were, we 
stopped in great surprise. 

“ D — n it. Cringle,” said the Don, his philosophy utterly at 
fault, “ the trunk of a man without a head ! — how is this ? ” 

“ Why, Mr Longtram,” I replied, “ this is our friend, Mr 
Smoothpate, or I mistake greatly.” 

“Let me see,” said Longtram; “if it be him, he used to 
have a head somewhere, I know. — Let me see. — Oh, it is him ; 
you are right, my boy; and here is his head after all, and a 
devil of a size it has grown to since dinner-time to be sure. 
But I know his features— bald pate— high forehead and cheek- 
bones.” 

Nota Bene . — We were still in the piazza, where Smoothpate 
was unquestionably present in the body, but the head was 
within the house, and altogether, as I can avouch, beyond the 
Don’s ken. 

“Where?” said I, groping about,— “very odd, for deuce 


490 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


take me if I can see his head. Why, he has none — a phe- 
nomenon — four legs and a tail, but no head, as I am a gentle- 
man — lively enough, too, he is — don’t seem to miss it much.” 
Here poor Smoothpate made a violent walloping in a vain at- 
tempt to disentangle himself. 

We could now hear shouts of laughter within, and a voice 
that I was sure belonged to Mr Smoothpate, begging to be re- 
leased from the pillory he had placed himself in, by removing 
a board in the wooden partition, and sliding it up, and then 
thrusting his caput from without into the interior of the 
house, to the no small amazement of the brown fiddler and 
his daughter who inhabited the same, and who had immedi- 
ately secured their prize by slipping the displaced board down 
again, wedging it firmly on the back of his neck, as if he had 
been fitted for the guillotine, thus nailing him fast, unless he 
had bolted, and left his head in pawn. 

We now entered, and perceived it was really Don Alonzo’s 
flushed but very handsome countenance that was grinning at 
us from where it was fixed, like a large peony rose stuck 
against the wall. After a hearty laugh we relieved him, and 
being now joined by Percales, who came up in his gig, with 
Mr Smoothpate’s following in his wake, we embarked for an 
airing at half-past one in the morning — Smoothpate and 
Percales, Longtram and Tom Cringle. Amongst other ex- 
ploits, we broke into a proscribed conventicle of drunken ne- 
groes — but I am rather ashamed of this part of the transac- 
tion, and intended to have held my tongue, had Aaron man- 
aged his, although it was notorious as the haunt of all the 
thieves and slight ladies of the place; here we found parson 
Charley, a celebrated black preacher, three parts drunk, ex- 
torting, as Mawworm says, a number of devotees, male and fe- 
male, all very tipsy, in a most blasphemous fashion, the table 
being covered with rummers of punch, and fragments of pies 
and cold meat; but this did not render our conduct more ex- 
cusable, I will acknowledge. Finally, as a trophy, Percales, 
who was a wickeder little chap than I took him for, with 
Longtram’s help, unshipped the bell of the conventicle from 
the little belfry, and fastening it below Smoothpate’s gig, we 
dashed back to Mr Shingle’s with it clanging at every jolt. In 
our progress the horse took fright, and ran away, and no won- 
der. 

“ Zounds, Don, the weather-rein has parted — what shall we 
do? ’’said I. ^ 

“Do?” rejoined Lucifer, with drunken gravity, — “haul 
on the other, to be sure — there is one left, an’t there ? — so hard 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 491 

a-port, and run him up against that gun at the street cor- 
ner, will ye ? That will stop him, or the devil is in it.” 

Crash — it was done — and over the horse’s ears we both flew 
like skyrockets; but, strange to tell, although we had wedged 
the wheel of the ketureen fast as a wreck on a reef, with the 
cannon that was stuck into the ground postwise between it 
and the body, there was no damage done beyond the springing 
of the starboard shaft ; so, with the assistance of the negro ser- 
vant, who had been thrown from his perch behind, by a shock 
that frightened him out of his wits, we hove the voiture off 
again, and arrived in safety at friend Shingle’s once more. 
Here we found the table set out with devilled turkey, and a 
variety of high-spiced dishes ; and, to make a long story short, 
we had another set-to, during which, as an interlude, Long- 
tram capsized Shingle out of the sofa he had again lain down 
on, in an attempt to jump over it, and broke his arm; and, 
being the soberest man of the company, I started off, guided 
by a negro servant, for Doctor Greyfriars. On our return, the 
first thing that met our eyes was the redoubted Don himself, 
lying on his back where he had fallen at his leap, with his 
head over the step at the door of the piazza. I thought his 
neck was broken ; and the doctor, considering that he was the 
culprit to be carved, forthwith had him carried in, his coat 
taken off, and was about striking a phleme into him, when 
Isaac’s voice sounded from the inner apartment, where he had 
lain all the while below the sofa like a crushed frog, the party 
in the background, who were boosing away, being totally 
unconscious of his mishaps, as they sat at table in the room 
beyond, enjoying themselves, impressed apparently with the 
belief that the whole affair was a lark. 

“ Doctor, doctor,” shouted he in great pain , — “ here, here — 
it is me that is murdered — that chap is only dead drunk, but I 
am really dead, or will be, if you don’t help.” 

At length the arm was set, and Shingle put to bed, and the 
whole crew dispersed themselves, each moving off as well as he 
could towards his own home. 

But the cream of the jest was richest next day. Parson 
Charley, who, drunk as he had been overnight, still retained a 
confused recollection of the parties who had made the irrup- 
tion, in the morning applied to Mr Smoothpate to have his 
bell restored, when the latter told him, with the utmost grav- 
ity, that Mr Onyx Steady was the culprit, who, by the by, had 
disappeared from Shingle’s before the bell interlude, and, in 
fact, was wholly ignorant of the transaction. “ Certainly,” 
quod Smoothpate, with the greatest seriousness, “ a most un- 
likely person, I will confess, Charley, as he is a grave, re- 


492 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


spectable man; still, yon know, the most demure cats some- 
times steal cream, Charley; so, parson, my good man, Mr 
Onyx Steady has your bell, and no one else.” 

Whereupon, away trudged Charley to Mr Steady’s ware- 
house, and pulling off his hat with a formal salaam, “Good 
Massa Onyx — sweet Massa Teady — pray give me de bell.” 
Here the sable clerigo gathered himself up, and leant com- 
posedly on his long staff, hat still in hand, and ear turned 
towards Mr Steady, awaiting his answer. 

“Bell?” ejaculated Steady, in great amazement, — “bell! 
what bell ? ” 

“ Oh, good, sweet Massa Onyx, dear Massa Onyx Teady, 
every body know you good person — quiet, wise somebody you 
is — all person sabe dat,” whined Charley ; then slipping near 
our friend, he whispered to him — “ But de best of we lob bit 
of fon now and den — de best of we left to himshef sometime.” 

“ Confound the fellow ! ” quoth Onyx, rather pushed off his 
balance by such an unlooked-for attack before his clerks ; “ get 
out of my house, sir — what the mischief do I know of you or 
your infernal bell ? I wish the tongue of it was in your stom- 
ach — get out, sir, away with you.” 

Charley could stand this no longer, and losing patience, 
“ D — n me eye, you is de tief, sir — so give me de bell, Massa 
Teady, or I sail pull you go before de Mayor, Massa Teady, 
and you sail be shame, Massa Teady; and it may be you sail 
be export to de Bay of Honduras, Massa Teady. Aha, how you 
will like dat, Massa Teady? you sail be export may be for 
break into chapel, during sarvice, and teal bell — aha, teal bell 
— who ever yeerie one crime equal to dat ! ” 

“ My good man,” quoth Onyx, who now felt the absurdity of 
the affair, “ I know nothing of all this — believe me there is a 
mistake. Who sent you here ? ” 

“ Massa Smoothpate,” roared Charley, “ Massa Smoothpate, 
he who neber tell lie to nobody, Massa Smoothpate sent me, 

sir, so de debil if you no give up de bell I sail ” 

“ Mr Smoothpate — oh ho ! ” sung out Steady, “ I see, I see 

” Finally, the affair was cleared up, a little hush-money 

made all snug, and Charley having got back his instrument, 
N bore no malice, so he and Steady resumed their former 
friendly footing — the “ statu quo ante helium” 

Another story and I have done — 

About a week after this, several of the same party again met 
at dinner, when my excellent friend Mr Nicodemus amused 
us exceedingly by the following story, which, for want of a 
better title, I shall relate under the head of 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


493 


A SLIPPERY YOUTH 

“We all know,” quoth old Nic, “ that house robberies have 
been very rife of late, and on peril even of having* the laugh 
against me, I will tell you how I suffered, no longer than three 
nights ago; so, Tom Cringle, will you and Bang have the 
charity to hold your tongues, and be instructed ? 

“ Old Gelid, Longtram, Steady, and myself, had been eat- 
ing ratoons , at the former’s domicile, and it was about nine in 
the evening when I got home. We had taken next to no wine, 
a pint of Madeira a-piece during dinner, and six bottles of 
claret between us afterwards, so I went to bed as cool as a cu- 
cumber, and slept soundly for several hours, until awakened 
by my old gander — now do be quiet, Cringle — by my old 
watchman of a gander, cackling like a hero. I struck my re- 
peater — half past one — so I turned myself, and was once more 
falling over into the arms of Morpheus, when I thought I saw 
some dark object flit silently across the open window that 
looks into the piazza, between me and the deep blue and as 
yet moonless sky. This somewhat startled me, but it might 
have been one of the servants. Still I got up and looked out, 
but I could see nothing. It did certainly strike me once or 
twice, that there was some dark object cowering in the deep 
gloom caused by the shade of the orange tree at the end of 
the piazza, but I persuaded myself it was fancy, and once 
more slipped into my nest. IIow T ever, the circumstance had 
put sleep to flight. Half an hour might have passed, and the 
deep dark purity of the eastern sky was rapidly quickening 
into a greenish azure, the forerunner of the rising moon,” 
(“ oh, confound your poetry,” said Rubiochico,) “ which was 
fast swamping the sparkling stars, like a bright river flowing 
over diamonds, when the old gander again set up his gabble- 
ment and trumpeted more loudly than before. 1 If you were 
not so tough, my noisy old cock ’ — thought I — ‘ next Michael- 
mas should be your last.’ So I now resolutely shut my eyes, 
and tried to sleep perforce, in which usually fruitless attempt, 
I was actually beginning to succeed, do you know, when a 
strong odour of palm oil came through the window, and on 
opening my eyes, I saw by the increasing light a naked negro 
standing at it, with his head and shoulders in sharp relief 
against the pale broad disk of the moon, at that moment just 
peering over the dark summit of the Long mountain. 

u I rubbed my eyes, and looked again ; the dark figure was 
still there, but as if aware that some one was on the watch, 
it gradually sank down, until nothing* but the round bullet 
head appeared above the window-sill. This was trying enough, 


494 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


but I made an effort, and lay still. The stratagem succeeded; 
the figure, deceived by my feigned snoring and quietude, 
slowly rose, and once more stood erect. Presently it slipt one 
foot into the room, and then another, but so noiselessly that 
when I saw the black figure standing before me on the floor, 
I had some misgivings as to whether or not it was really a 
being of this world. However, I had small space for specula- 
tion, when it slid past the foot of the bed towards my open bu- 
reau — I seized the opportunity — started up — turned the key 
of the door — and planted myself right between the thief and 
the open window. ‘ Now, you scoundrel, surrender, or I will 
murder you on the spot/ I had scarcely spoken the word, 
when, with the speed of light, the fellow threw himself on me 
— we closed — I fell — when, clip, he slipped through my fingers 
like an eel — bolted through the window — cleared the balcony 
at a bound, and disappeared. The thief had stripped himself 
as naked as he was born, and soaped his woolly scull, and 
smeared his whole corpus with palm oil, so that in the strug- 
gle I was charmingly lubricated.” 

Nicodemus here lay back on his chair, evidently desirous of 
our considering this the whole of the story, but he was not to 
be let off so easily, for presently Longtram, with a wicked 
twinkle of his eye, chimed in — 

“ Ay, and what happened next, old Nic — did nothing fol- 
low, eh?” 

Nic’s countenance assumed an irresolute expression; he 
saw he was jammed up in the wind, so at a venture he deter- 
mined to sham deafness — 

“ Take wine, Lucifer — a glass of Hermitage?” 

“With great pleasure,” said his Satanic majesty. The 
propitiatory libation, however, did not work, for no sooner 
had his glass touched the mahogany again, than he returned 
to the charge. 

“ Now, Mr Nicodemus, since you won’t, I will tell the com- 
pany the reason of so nice an old gentleman wearing Balti- 
more flour in his hair instead of perfumed Mareschale pow- 
der, and none of the freshest either, let me tell you; why, I 
have seen three weavels take flight from your august pate 
since we sat down to dinner.” 

Old Nic, seeing he was caught, met the attack with the 
greatest good-humour — 

“Why, I will tell the whole truth, Lucifer, if you don’t 
bother.” — (“ The devil thank you,” said Longtram.) — “ So 
you must know,” continued Nicodemus, “ that I immediately 
roused the servants, searched the premises in every direction 
without success — nothing could be seen; but, at the sugges- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


495 


tion of my valet, I lit a small spirit lamp, and placed it on the 
table at my bed-side, on which it pleased him to place my 
brace of Mantons, loaded with slug, and my naked small 
sword, so that, thought I, if the thief ventures back, he shalb 
not slip through my fingers again so easily. I do confess that 
these imposing preparations did appear to me somewhat pre- 
posterous, even at the time, as it was not, to say the least of 
it, very probable that my slippery gentleman would return 
the same night. However, my servant in his zeal was not to 
be denied, and I was not so fit to judge as usual, from having 
missed my customary quantity of wine after dinner the pre- 
vious day ; so, seeing all right, I turned in, thus bristling like 
a porcupine, and slept soundly until daylight, when I be- 
thought me of getting up. I then rose — slipt on my night- 
gown — and,” — here Nicodemus laughed more loudly than 
ever, — “ as I am a gentleman, my spirit-lamp — naked sword — • 
loaded pistols — my diamond breast-pin, and all my clothes, 
even unto my unmentionables, had disappeared; but what was 
the cruelest cut of all, my box of Mareschale powder, my pat- 
ent puff, and all my pomade divine, had also vanished; and 
true enough, as Lucifer says, it so happened that, from the 
delay in the arrival of the running ships, there was not an 
ounce of either powder or pomatum to be had in the whole 
town, so I have been driven in my extremity — oh most horri- 
ble declension ! — to keep my tail on hog’s lard and Baltimore 
flour ever since.” 

“ Well, but ” — persisted Lucifer — “ who the deuce was the 
man in the moon? Come, tell us. And what has become of 
the queue you so tenderly nourished, for you sport a crop, 
Master Nic, now, I perceive? ” 

Here Nicodemus was neither to hold nor to bind; he was 
absolutely suffocating with laughter, as he shrieked out, with 
long intervals between — 

“ Why, the robber was my own favourite body-servant, 

Crabclaw, after all, and be d d to him — the identical m sai 

who advised the warlike demonstrations; and as for the pig- 
tail, why, on the very second night of the flour and grease, 
it was so cruelly damaged by a rat while I slept, that I had 
to amputate the whole affair, stoop and roop, this very morn- 
ing.” And so saying, the excellent creature fell back in his 
chair, like to choke from the uproariousness of his mirth, 
while the tears streamed down his cheeks, and washed chan- 
nels in the flour, as if he had been a tatooed Mandingo. 


496 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE LAST OF THE LOG — TOM CRINGLE'S FAREWELL 

“ AM whether we shall meet again, I know not.” 

Brutus to Cassius , in Julius Ccesar. 

One fine morning about this time, we had just anchored 
on our return from a cruise, when I received, as I was dress- 
ing, a letter from the secretary, desiring me instantly to wait 
on the Admiral, as I was promoted to the rank of commander, 
(how I did dance and sing, my eye!) and appointed to the 
Lotus-Leaf, of eighteen guns, then refitting at the dock-yard, 
and under orders from England. 

I accordingly, after calling and making my bow, proceeded 
to the dockyard to enter on my new command, and I was 
happy in being able to get Tailtackle and Reef point once 
more removed along with me. 

The gunner of Lotus-Leaf having died, Timotheus got an 
acting warrant, which I rejoice to say was ultimately con- 
firmed, and little Reefy, now a commander in the service, 
weathered it many a day with me afterwards, both as mid- 
shipman and lieutenant. 

After seeing every thing in a fair train, on board, I applied 
for a fortnight’s leave, which I got, as the trade which I was 
to convoy had not yet congregated, nor were they likely to 
do so before the expiry of this period. 

Having paid my respects at the Admiral’s pen, I returned 
to Kingston. Most of the houses in the lower part of the 
town are surmounted by a small look-out , as it is called, like 
a little belfry fitted with green blinds, and usually furnished 
with one or more good telescopes. It is the habit of the Kings- 
tonians to resort in great numbers to those gardemange- look- 
ing boxes, whenever a strange sail appears in the offing, or 
any circumstance takes place at sea worth reconnoitring. It 
was about nine o’clock on a fine morning, and I had taken 
my stand in one of them, peering out towards the east, but 
no white speck on the verge of the horizon indicated an ap- 
proaching sail, so I slewed round the glass to the westward, 
to have a squint at the goings on amongst the squadron, ly- 
ing at anchor at Port Royal, about six miles off, then mus- 
tering no fewer than eighteen pennants, viz. one line-of-bat- 
tle ship, one fifty, five frigates, two corvettes, one ship-sloop, 
four eighteen-gun brigs, three schooners, and a cutter. All 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


497 


was quiet, not even one solitary signal making amongst them; 
so I again scoured the horizon towards the east, when I no- 
ticed a very dashing schooner, which had sailed that morn- 
ing, as she crept along the Palisadoes. She was lying up the 
inner channel, taking advantage of the land-wind, in place 
of staggering away to the southward through the ship-chan- 
nel, already within the influence of the sea-breeze, but which 
was as yet neutralized close in shore where she was by the 
terral. The speed of the craft — the rapidity with which she 
slid along the land with the light air, riveted my attention. 
On inquiry, I found she was the Carthagenian schooner Josef a. 
At this moment the splash of oars was heard right below 
where we stood, and a very roguish-looking craft, also schoon- 
er-rigged about a hundred tons burden apparently, passed 
rapidly beneath us, tearing up the shining surface of the 
sleeping harbour, with no fewer than fourteen sweeps. She 
was very heavily rigged, with her mainmast raking over the 
tafferel, and full of men. I noticed she had a long gun on a 
pivot, and several carronades mounted. Presently there was 
a good deal of whispering amongst the group of half a dozen 
gentlemen who were with me in the look-out, who, from their 
conversation, I soon found were underwriters on the schooner 
outside. 

“ Heyday,” said one, “the Antonio is oil somewhat sud- 
denly this morning.” 

“ Where may that schooner, that is sweeping so handsomely 
down harbour, belong to ? ” said I to the gentleman who had 
spoken. 

“ To Havana,” was the answer ; “ but I fear he intends to 
overhaul the Josef a there, and she would be a good prize to 
him, now since Carthagena has thrown off allegiance to 
Spain.” 

“ But he will never venture to infract the neutrality of the 
waters surely,” rejoined I, “within sight of the squadron 
too?” 

The gentleman I spoke to smiled incredulously; and as I 
had nothing particular to do for a couple of hours, I resolved 
to remain and see the issue. In a few minutes, the sea-breeze 
came thundering down, in half a gale of wind, singing 
through the rigging of the ships alongside of the wharfs, and 
making the wooden blinds rattle again. The Antonio laid 
in her sweeps, spread her canvass in an instant, and was 
lying-to, off the fort at Port Royal, to land her pass, in little 
more than half an hour from the time she passed us, a dis- 
tance of no less than seven miles, as she had to sail it. In a 
minute the jibsheet was again hauled over to leeward, and 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


498 

away she was like an arrow, crowding all sail. I had seldom 
seen a vessel so weatherly before. In an hour more, she was 
abreast of the town, and abeam of the Josef a, who, from be- 
ing cooped up in the narrow inner channel, had, ever since the 
sea-breeze set down, been bothering with short tacks, about, 
and about, every minute. Presently the Antonio dashed in 
through a streak of blue water in the reef, so narrow, that to 
look at it, I did not think a boat could have passed, and got 
between the Josef a and Port Royal, when he took in his gaff- 
topsail, and hauled down his flying-jib, but made no hostile 
demonstration, beyond keeping dead to leeward, tack for 
tack with the Josef a; and once, when the latter seemed about 
to bear up and run past him, I noticed the foot of his fore- 
sail lift, and his sails shiver as he came to the wind, as much 
as to say, “ Luff again, my lady, or I’ll fire at you.” It was 
now clear J osefa did not like her playmate, for she cracked on 
all the canvass she could carry ; and, having tried every other 
manoeuvre to escape without effect, she at length, with reck- 
less desperation, edged away a point, and flew like smoke 
through another gap, even smaller and shallower than the 
one the Antonio had entered by. We all held our breath 
until she got into blue water again, expecting every moment 
to see her stick fast, and her masts tumble over the side; but 
she scraped clear very cleverly, and the next moment was 
tearing and plunging through the tumbling waves outside of 
the reefs. Antonio, as I expected, followed her, but all very 
quietly, still keeping well to leeward, however. Thus they 
continued for half an hour, running to the southward and 
eastward, when I noticed the Havanero, who had gradually 
crept up under the Josef a’s lee-quarter, hoist his colours and 
pennant, and fire a gun at her. She immediately tacked in 
great confusion, and made all sail to get back through the 
canal into the inner channel, with the other schooner close 
at her heels, blazing away from his long gun as fast as he 
could load. A Spaniard, who was one of the principal own- 
ers of the Josefa’s cargo, happened to be standing beside me 
in the look-out; at every shot, he would, with a face of the 
most intense anxiety, while the perspiration hailed off his 
brow, slap his hands on his thighs, and shrink down on his 
hams, cowering his head at the same time, as if the shot had 
been aimed at him, and he was trying to shun it, apostrophiz- 
ing himself, with an agitated voice, as follows: 

“ Valga me Dios, que demonio, que demonio! Ah, Pancho 
Roque, tu es ruinado, mi amigo.” Another shot. “ Tu es 
ruinado, chicatico, tan gierto como navos no son coles.” A 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


499 


third flash. “ Oh, rabo de lechon de San Antonio, que es eso, 

que es eso ! ”* 

Neck and neck, however, in came the Josef a, staggering 
right through the narrow channel once more, persecuted by 
the Antonio, with the white breakers foaming and flashing 
close to on each side of her, but by this time there was a third 
party in the game. I had noticed a lot of signals made in the 
flag-ship. Presently one of the sloops of war fired a gun, and 
before the smoke blew off, she was under weigh, with her top- 
sails, foresail, spanker, and foretopmast-staysail set. This 
was his Majesty’s sloop of war Seaflower, which had slipped 
from her moorings, and was now crowding all sail in chase 
of the arrogant Don, who had dared to fire a shot in anger 
in the sanctuary of British waters. All this while, the An- 
tonio had been so intent on hooking the Carthagenian, that 
the sloop was nearly up to him before he hove about and gave 
up the chase; and now the tables were beautifully turned on 
him, for the Seaflower’s shot was flying over and over him 
in whole broadsides, and he must have been taken, when, 
crack, away went the sloop’s foretop-gallant-mast, which gave 
the rogue a start. In an hour he was away to windward as 
far as you could see, and his pursuer and the Josef a were once 
more at anchor in Port Royal. 

That evening I returned to the dock-yard, where I found 
every thing going on with Lotus-Leaf as I could wish. So I 
returned, after a three days’ sojourn on board, to Kingston, 
and next afternoon mounted my horse, or rather a horse that 
a friend was fool enough to lend me, at the agent’s wharf, 
with the thermometer at ninety-five in the shade, and can- 
tering off, landed at my aunt Mrs Palma’s mountain resi- 
dence, where the mercury stood at sixty-two at night-fall, just 
in time to dress for dinner. I need not say that we had a 
pleasant party, as Mary was there; so, having rigged very 
killingly as I thought, I made my appearance at dinner, a 
mighty man, indeed, with my two epaulets ; but to my great 
disappointment, when I walked into the piazza, not a 
soul seemed to acknowledge my promotion. “How blind 
people are ! ” thought I. Even my cousins, little creole ur- 
chins, dressed in small transparent cambric shifts, tied into 
a knot over their tails, and with devil the thing else on, 
seemed to perceive no difference, as they pulled me about, 
with a volley of “ Cousin Taam, what you bring we?” 

At length dinner was announced, and we adjourned from 

* Thus freely Heaven defend me. what a devil ! Ah, Pancho Roque, 
you are ruined, mv fine fellow — you are ruined, my little man, so sure as 
turnips are not cauliflowers. Oh, tail of St. Anthony’s pig, that it should 
come to this ! ” 




500 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


the dark balcony to the dining-room. “ Come, there is light 
enough here; my rank will be noticed now, surely — but no — 
so patience.” The only males of the party were the doctor 
of the district, two Kingston gentlemen, young Palma, and 

Colonel B of the guards; the ladies at dinner being my 

aunt, Mary, and her younger sister. We sat down all in high 
glee ; I was sitting opposite my dearie. “ Deuced strange — 
neither does she take any notice of my two epaulets ; ” and I 
glanced my eye, to be sure that they were both really there. 
I then, with some small misgivings, stole a look towards the 
Colonel — a very handsome fellow, with all the ease and polish 
of a soldier and a gentleman about him. “ The devil, it can- 
not be, surely,” for the black-eyed and black-haired pale face 
seemed annoyingly attentive to the militaire. At length this 
said officer addressed me, “ Captain Cringle, do me the honour 
to take wine. Mary started at the Captain — 

“ She gazed, she redden’d like a rose. 

Syne pale as ony lily.” 

“ Aha,” thought I, “ all right still.” She trembled extremely, 
and her mother at length noticed it, I saw; but all this 

while, B was balancing a land-crab on his silver fork, 

while, with a wine-glass in his other claw, he was ogling me 
in some wonderment. I saw the awkwardness of the affair, 
and seizing a bottle of catchup for one of sercial, I filled my 
glass with such vehemence, that I spilt a great part of it ; but 
even the colour and flavour did not recover me; so, with a 
face like a north-west moon, I swilled off the potion, and in- 
stantly fell back in my chair — “ Poisoned ! by all that is non- 
sensical — poisoned — catchup — O Lord ! ” and off I started to 
my bedroom, where, by dint of an ocean of hot water, I got 
quit of the sauce, and clinching the whole with a caulker of 
brandy, I returned to the dinner-table a good deal abashed, I 
will confess, but endeavouring most emphatically all the while 
to laugh it off as a good jest. But my Mary was flown; she 
had been ailing for some days, her mother alleged, and she 
required rest. Presently my aunt rose, and we were left to 
our bottle, and sorry am I to say it, I bumpered away from 
some strong unaccountable impulse, until I got three parts 
drunk, to the great surprise of the rest of the party, for guz- 
zling wine was not certainly a failing of mine, unless on the 
strong provocation of good fellowship. 

Mary did not appear that evening, and I may as well tell 
the whole truth, that she was pledged to marry me whenever 
I got my step; and next morning all this sort of thing was 
duly communicated to mamma, &c. &c. &c. and I was the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


501 


happiest, and so forth — all of which, as it concerns no one 
but myself, if you please, we shall say no more about it. 

The beautiful cottage where we were sojourning was situ- 
ated about three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and 
half way up the great prong of the Blue Mountains, known 
by the name of the Liguanea range, which rises behind, and 
overhangs the city of Kingston. The road to it, after you 
have ridden about five miles over the hot plain of Liguanea, 
brings you to Hope estate, where an anatomy of an old watch- 
man greeted me with the negro’s constant solicitation — 
“ Massa, me beg you for one fee-penny.” This youth was, as 
authentic records shew, one hundred and forty years old only. 
— The Hope is situated in the very gorge of the pass, wherein 
you have to travel nine miles farther, through most magnifi- 
cent scenery; at one time struggling among the hot stones 
of the all but dry river-course; at others winding along the 
breezy cliffs, on mule-paths not twelve inches wide, with a 
perpendicular wall of rock rising five hundred feet above you 
on one side, while a dark gulf, a thousand feet deep, yawned 
on the other, from the bottom of which arose the hoarse mur- 
mur of the foliage-screened brook. Noble trees spread tlieir 
boughs overhead, and the most beautiful shrubs and bushes 
grew and blossomed close at hand, and all was moist, and 
cool, and fresh, until you turned the bare pinnacle of some 
limestone rock, naked as the summit of the Andes, where the 
hot sun, even through the thin attenuated air of that altitude, 
would suddenly blaze on you so fiercely, that your eyes were 
blinded and your face blistered, as if you had been suddenly 
transported within the influence of a sirocco. Well, now since 
you know the road, let us take a walk after breakfast. It shall 
be a beautiful clear day — not a speck or cloud in the heavens. 
Mary is with me. 

“ Well, Tom,” says she, “ you were very sentimental last 
evening.” 

“ Sentimental ! I was deucedly sick, let me tell you — a wine- 
glassful of cold catchup is rather trying even to a lover’s 
stomach, Mary. Murder, I never was so sick, even in my 
first cruise in the old Breeze ! Bah ! Do you know I did not 
think of you for an hour afterwards ? — not until that bumper 
of brandy stayed my calamity. But come, when shall we be 
married, Maria? Oh, have done with your blushing and 
botheration — to-morrow or next day? It would not be quite 
the thing this evening would it?” 

“ Tom, you are crazy. Time enough, surely, when we all 
meet in England.” 

“ And when may that be ? ” said I, drawing her arm closer 


502 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


through mine. “ No, no — to-morrow I will call on the Ad- 
miral ; and as you are all going to England in the fleet at any 
rate, I will ask his leave to give you a passage, and — and — 
and — — ” 

All of which, as I said before, being parish news, we shall 
drop a veil over it — so a small touch at the scenery again. 

Immediately under foot rose several lower ranges of moun- 
tains — those nearest us, covered with the laurel-looking cof- 
fee-bushes, interspersed with negro villages hanging amongst 
the fruit-trees like clusters of birds’ nests on the hill-side, 
with a bright green patch of plantain suckers here and there, 
and a white painted overseer’s house peeping from out the 
wood, and herds of cattle in the Guinea-grass pieces. Beyond 
these, stretched out the lovely plain of Liguanea, covered with 
luxuriant cane-pieces, and groups of negro-houses, and 
Guinea-grass pastures of even a deeper green than that of the 
canes; and small towns of sugar-works rose every here and 
there, with their threads of white smoke floating up into the 
clear sky, while, as the plain receded, the cultivation disap- 
peared, and it gradually became sterile, hot, and sandy, until 
the Long Mountain hove its back like a whale from out the 
sea-like level of the plain; while to the right of it appeared 
the city of Kingston, like a model, with its parade, or place 
d’armes, in the centre, from which its long lines of hot sandy 
streets stretched out at right angles, with the military post of 
Up-park Camp, situated about a mile and a half to the north- 
ward and eastward of the town. Through a tolerably good 
glass, the church-spire looked like a needle, the trees about 
the houses like bushes, the tall cocoa-nut trees like harebells; 
a slow crawling black speck here and there denoted a car- 
riage moving along, while waggons with their teams of eigh- 
teen or twenty oxen, looked like so many centipedes. At the 
camp, the two regiments drawrn out on parade, with two nine- 
pounders on each flank, and their attendant gunners, looked 
like a red sparkling line, with two black spots at each end, 
surrounded by small black dots. Presently the red line wav- 
ered, and finally broke up as the regiments wheeled into open 
column, when the whole fifteen hundred men crawled past 
three little scarlet spots, denoting the general and his staff. 
When they began to manoeuvre, each company looked like a 
single piece in a game at chess; and as they fired by compa- 
nies, the little tiny puffs of smoke floated up like wreaths of 
wool, suddenly surmounting and overlaying the red lines, 
while the light companies breaking away into skirmishers, 
seemed, for all the world, like two red bricks suddenly cast 
down, and shattered on the ground, whereby the fragments 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


503 


were scattered all over the green fields, and under the noble 
trees, the biggest of which looked like small cabbages. At 
length the line was again formed, and the inspection being 
over, it broke up once more, and the minute red fragments 
presently vanished altogether like a nest of ants, the guns 
looking like so many barley-corns, under the long lines of 
barracks, that seemed no bigger than houses in a child’s toy. 
As for the other arm , we of the navy had no reason to glorify 
ourselves. For, while the review proceeded on shore, a strange 
man-of-war hove in sight in the offing, looming like a mus- 
sel-shell, although she was a forty-four-gun frigate, and ran, 
down before the wind, close to the palisadoes, or natural 
tongue of land, which juts out like a bow from Rock Fort, 
to the eastward of Kingston, and hoops in the harbour, and 
then lengthens out, trending about five miles due west, where 
it widens out into a sandy flat, on which the town and forts 
of Port Royal are situated. She was saluting the admiral 
when I first saw her. A red spark and a small puff on the 
starboard side — a puff, but no spark on the larboard, which 
was the side farthest from us, but no report from either 
reached our ears; and presently down came the little red 
flag, and up went the St George’s ensign, white, with a red 
cross, -while the sails of the gallant craft seemed about the 
size of those of a little schoolboy’s play- thing. After a short 
interval, the flag-ship, a seventy-four, lying at Port Royal, 
returned the salute. She, again, appeared somewhat loftier; 
she might have been an oyster- shell; while the squadron of 
four frigates, two sloops of war, and several brigs and schoon- 
ers, looked like ants in the wake of a beetle. As for the dear 
little Wave, I can compare her to nothing but a musquito, 
and the large 500-ton West Indiamen lying off Kingston, five 
miles nearer, were but as small cock-boats to the eye. In the 
offing the sea appeared like ice, for the waves were not seen 
at all, and the swell could only be marked by the difference in 
the reflection of the sun’s rays as it rose and fell, while a 
hot haze hung over the whole, making every thing indistinct, 
so that the water blended into sky, without the line of de- 
marcation being visible. Put even as we looked forth on this 
most glorious scene, a small black cloud rose to windward. 
At this time we were both sitting on the grasp on a most beau- 
tiful bank, beneath an orange-tree. The ominous appearance 
increased in size — the sea-breeze was suddenly stifled — the 
swelling sails of the frigate that had first saluted, fell, and, as 
she rolled, flattened in against the masts— the rustling of the 
green leaves overhead ceased. 

The cloud rolled onward from the east, and spread out, and 


5°4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


out, as it sailed in from seaward, and on, and on, until it 
gradually covered the whole scene from our view, (shipping, 
and harbour, and town, and camp, and sugar estates,) boil- 
ing and rolling in black eddies under our feet. Anon the 
tliunder began to grumble, and the zigzag lightning to fork 
out from one dark mass into another, while all, where we sat, 
was bright and smiling under the unclouded noon-day sun. 
This continued for half an hour, when at length the sombre 
appearance of the clouds below us brightened into a sea of 
white fleecy vapour like wool, which gradually broke away 
into detached masses, discovering another layer of still thin- 
ner vapour underneath, which again parted, disclosing 
through the interstices a fresh gauze-like veil of transparent 
mist, through which the lower ranges of hills, and the sugar 
estates, and the town and shipping, were once more dimly 
visible; but this in turn vanished, and the clouds attracted 
by the hills, floated away, and hung around them in festoons, 
and gradually rose and rose until presently we were envel- 
oped in mist, and Mary spoke — “ Tom, there will be thunder 
here — what shall we do ? ” 

“ Poo, never mind, Mary ; you have a conductor on the 
house.” 

“True,” said she; “but the servants, when the post that 
supported it was blown down, t’ other day, very judiciously 
unlinked the rods, and now, since I remember me, they are, 
to use your phrase, ‘ stowed away * below the house ; ” and so 
they were sure enough. However, we had no more thunder, 
and soon the only indications of the spent storm were the 
increased distinctness of objects at a distance, the coolness 
and purity of the air, the brighter green of the cane-fields, 
and the red discoloured appearance of the margin of the har- 
bour, from the rush of muddy water ofi the land, and the 
chocolate colour of the previously snow-white sandy roads, 
that now twisted through the plain like black snakes, and a 
fleecy dolphin-shaped cloud here and there stretching out, and 
floating horizontally in the blue sky, as if it had been hooked 
to the precipitous mountain tops above us. 

Next day it was agreed that we should all return to Kings- 
ton, and the day after that, we proceeded to Mr Bang’s Pen, 
on the Spanish Town road, as a sort of half-way house, or 
stepping-stone to his beautiful residence in St Thomas in the 
Vale, where we were all invited to spend a fortnight. Our 
friend himself was on the other side of the island, but he was 
to join us in the valley, and we found our comforts carefully 
attended to; and as the day after we had set up our tent at the 
Pen was to be one of rest to my aunt, I took the opportunity 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


505 


of paying my respects to the admiral, who was then careening 
at his mountain retreat in the vicinity with his family. Ac- 
cordingly, I took horse, and rode along the margin of the 
great lagoon, on the Spanish Town road, through tremendous 
detiles; and after being driven into a watchman’s hut by the 
rain, I reached the house, and was most graciously received 
by Sir Samuel Semaphore and his lady, and their lovely 
daughters. Oh, the most splendid women that ever were 
built! The youngest is now, I believe, the prime ornament 
of the Scottish Peerage; and I never can forget the pleasure 
I so frequently experienced in those days in the society of 
this delightful family. The same evening I returned to the 
Pen. On my way I fell in with three officers in white jackets, 
and broad-brimmed straw hats, wading up to the waist 
amongst the reeds of the lagoon, with guns held high above 
their heads. They were shooting ducks, it seemed; and their 
negro servants were heard ploutering and shouting amidst 
the thickets of the crackling reeds, while their dogs were 
swimming all about them. 

“ Hillo ! ” shouted the nearest — 11 Cringle, my lad — whither 
bound ? how is Sir Samuel and Lady Semaphore, eh ? Capital 
sport, ten brace of teal — there” — and the spokesman threw 
two beautiful birds ashore to me. This wise man of the 
bulrushes was no less a personage than Sir Jeremy Mayo, the 
commander of the forces, one of the bravest fellows in the 
army, and respected and beloved by all who ever knew him, 
but a regular dare-devil of an Irishman, who, not satisfied 
with his chance of yellow fever on shore, had thus chosen to 
hunt for it with his staff, in the Caymanas Lagoon. 

Next morning, we set out in earnest on our travels for St 
Thomas in the Vale, in two of our friend Bang’s gigs, and 
my aunt’s ketureen, laden with her black maiden and a lot 
of bandboxes, while two mounted servants brought up the rear, 
and my old friend Jupiter, who had descended, not from the 
clouds, but from the excellent Mr Fyall, who was by this time 
gathered to his fathers, to Massa Aaron, rode a musket-shot 
a-head of the convoy to clear away, or give notice of any im- 
pediments, of waggons or carts, or droves of cattle, that might 
be meeting us. 

After driving five miles or so, we reached the seat of gov- 
ernment, Spanish Town. Here we stopped at the Speaker’s 
house — by the way, one of the handsomest and most agreea- 
ble men I ever saw — intending to proceed in the afternoon 
to our destination. But the rain in the forenoon fell so 
heavily, that we had to delay our journey until next morn- 
ing; and that afternoon I spent in attending the debates in 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


506 

the House of Assembly, where every thing was conducted 
with much greater decorum than I ever saw maintained in 
the House of Commons, and no great daring in the assertion 
either. The Hall itself, fitted with polished mahogany 
benches, was handsome and well aired, and between it and 
the grand court, as it is called, occupying the other end of 
the building, which was then sitting, there is a large cool sa- 
loon, generally in term time well filled with wigless lawyers 
and their clients. The House of Assembly (this saloon and 
the court-house forming one side of the square) is situated 
over against the Government House; while another side is 
occupied by a very handsome temple, covering in a statue 
erected to Lord Rodney, the saver of the Island, as he is al- 
ways called, from having crushed the fleet of Count de Grasse. 

At length, at gray-dawn the next day, as the report of the 
morning gun came booming along the level plain from Port 
Royal, we weighed, and finally started on our cruise. As we 
drove up towards St Thomas in the Yale, from Spanish Town, 
along the hot sandy road, the plain gradually roughened into 
small rocky eminences, covered with patches of bushes, here 
and there, with luxuriant Guinea-grass growing in the clefts ; 
the road then sank between abrupt little hills — the Guinea- 
the trees rose higher, the air felt fresher and coller, and 
corn fields began to disappear, the grass became greener, 
proceeding still farther, the hills on either side swelled into 
mountains, and became rocky and precipitous, and drew to- 
gether, as it were, until they appeared to impend over us. 
We had now arrived at the gorge of the pass, leading into the 
valley, through which flowed a most beautiful limpid clear 
blue stream, along the margin of which the road wound, 
while the tree-clothed precipices rose five hundred feet per- 
pendicularly on each brink. Presently we crossed a wooden 
bridge, supported by a stone pier in the centre, when Jupiter 
pricked a-head to give notice of the approach of waggons, 
that our cavalcade might haul up, out of danger, into some 
nook in the rock, to allow the lumbersome teams to pass. 

“ What is that ? ” — I was driving my dearie in the leading 
gig — “ is that a pistol-shot ? ” It was the crack of the long 
whip carried by the negro waggoner, reverberating from hill 
to hill, and from cliff to cliff; and presently the father of 
gods came thundering down the steep acclivity we were 
ascending. 

“ Massa, draw up into dat corner; draw up.” 

I did as I was desired, and presently the shrill whistle of 
the negro waggoners, and the increasing sharpness of the 
reports of their whips, the handles of which were as long as 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


507 

fishing-rods, and their wild exclamations to their cattle, to 
whom they addressed themselves by name, as if they had 
been reasonable creatures, gave notice of the near approach 
of a train of no fewer than seven waggons, each with three 
drivers, eighteen oxen, three hogsheads of sugar, and two 
puncheons of rum. 

“ Come,” thought I — “ if the negroes are overworked, it is 
more than the bullocks are, at all events.” They passed us 
with abundance of yelling and cracking, and as soon as the 
coast was clear, we again pursued our way up the ravine, 
than which nothing could be more beautiful or magnificent. 
On our right hand now rose, almost perpendicularly, the 
everlasting rocks, to a height of a thousand feet, covered with 
the richest foliage that imagination can picture, while here 
and there a sharp steeple-like pinnacle of gray stone, over- 
grown with lichens, shot up, and out from the face of them, 
into the blue sky, mixing with the tall forest trees that over- 
hung the road, festooned with ivy and withes of different 
kinds, like the rigging of a ship, round which the tendrils of 
many a beautiful wild-flower crept twining up, while all was 
fresh with the sparkling dew that showered down on us, with 
every breath of wind, like rain. On our left foamed the roar- 
ing river, and on the other brink the opposite bank rose 
equally precipitously, clothed also with superb trees, that 
spread their blending boughs over the chasm, until they wove 
themselves together with those that grew on the side we were 
on, qualifying the noonday fierceness of a Jamaica sun into 
a green cool twilight, while the long misty reaches of the 
blue river, with white foaming rapids here and there, and 
the cattle wading in them, lengthened out beneath in the 
distance. Oh ! the very look of it refreshed one unspeakably. 

Presently a group of half a dozen country Buccras — over- 
"seers, or coffee-planters, most likely, or possibly larger fish 
than either — hove in sight, all in their blue-white jean trow- 
sers, and long Hessian boots pulled up over them, and new 
blue, square-cut, bright-buttoned coatees, and threadbare, 
silk, broad-brimmed hats. They clashed past us on goodish 
nags, followed at a distance of three hundred yards by a 
covey of negro servants, mounted on mules, in white Osna- 
burg trowsers, with a shirt or frock over them, no stockings, 
each with one spur, and the stirrup-iron held firmly between 
the great and second toes, while a snow-white sheep’s fleece 
covered their massas’ portmanteaus, strapped on to the mail 
pillion behind. We drove on for about seven miles, after en- 
tering the pass, the whole scenery of which was by far the 
finest thing I had ever seen, the precipices on each side be- 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


508 

coming more and more rugged and abrupt as we advanced, 
until all at once we emerged from the chasm on the parish 
of St Thomas in the Yale, which opened on us like a magical 
illusion, in all its green luxuriance and freshness. But by this 
time we were deucedly tired, and Massa Aaron’s mansion, 
situated on its little airy hill above a sea of canes, which 
rose and fell before the passing breeze like the waves of the 
ocean, was the njost consolatory object in the view; and 
thither we drove as fast as our wearied horses could carry us, 
and found every thing most carefully prepared for our recep- 
tion. Having dressed, we had a glorious dinner, lots of good 
wine; and, the happiest of the happy, I tumbled into bed, 
dreaming of leading a division of line-of -battle ships into ac- 
tion, and of Mary, and of our eldest son being my first lieu- 
tenant, and 

“ Massa,” quoth Jupiter — “you take a cup of coffee, dis 
marning, massa ? ” 

“ Thank you — certainly.” 

It was by this time gray dawn. My window had been left 
open the evening before, when it was hot and sultry enough ; 
but it was now cold and damp, and a wetting mist boiled in 
through the open sash, like rolling wreaths of white smoke. 

“ What is that — where are wo — in the North Sea, or on the 
top of Mont-Blanc? Why, clouds may be all in your way, 
Massa Jupiter, but •” 

“ Cloud.! ” rejoined that deity — “ him no more den marning 
fag, massa; always hab him over de Yale in de marning, until 
de sun melt him. And where is you ? — why, you is in Massa 
Aaron’s house, here in St Thomas in de Yale — and'Miss ” 

“ Miss ! ” said I— “ what Miss ? ” 

“ Oh, for you Miss,” rejoined Jupiter, with a grin. “ Miss 
Mary up and dress already, and de horses are at de door ; him 
wait for you to ride wid him before breakfast, massa, and to 
see de clearing of de fag.” 

“ Bide before breakfast ! — see the clearing of the fog ! ” 
grumbled I. “Bomantic it may be, but consumedly incon- 
venient.” However, my knighthood was at stake; so up I 
got, drank my coffee, dressed, and adjourned to the piazza, 
where my adorable was already rigged with riding-habit and 
whip ; straightway we mounted, she into her side-saddle, with 
her riding-habit and who knows how many petticoats beneath 
her, while I, Pilgarlic, embarked in thin jean trowsers upon a 
cold, damp, indeed wet saddle, that made me shiver again. 
But I was understood to be in love; ergo, I was expected to 
be agreeable. However, a damp saddle and a thin pair of 
trowsers allay one’s ardour a good deal too. But if any one 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


509 


had seen the impervious fog in which we sat — why, you could 
not see a tree three yards from you — a cabbage looked like a 
laurel bush. Sneezer became a dromedary, and the negroes 
passing the little gate to their work were absolute Titans. — 
Boom — a long, reverberating noise thundered in the distance, 
and amongst the hills, gradually dying away in a hollow 
rumble. — “ The admiral tumbling down the hatchway, Tom — 
the morning gun fired at Port Royal,” said Mary; and so 
it was. 

The fire-flies were still glancing amongst the leaves of the 
beautiful orange-trees in front of the house; but we could 
see no farther, the whole view being shrouded under the 
thick watery veil which rolled and boiled about us, some- 
times thick, and sometimes thinner, hovering between a mist 
and small rain, and wetting one’s hair, and face, and clothes, 
most completely. We descended from the eminence on which 
the house stood, rode along the level at the foot of it, and 
after a canter of a couple of miles, we began to ascend a 
bridle-path, through the Guinea-grass pastures, which rose 
rank and soakingly wet, as high as one’s saddllebow, drench- 
ing me to the skin, in the few patches where I was not wet be- 
fore. All this while the fog continued as thick as ever; at 
length we suddenly rose above it — rode out of it, as it were. 

St Thomas in the Yale is, as the name denotes, a deep 
valley, about ten miles long by six broad, into which there 
is but one inlet comfortably passable for carriages — the road 
along which we had to come. The hills, by which it is sur- 
rounded on all sides, are, for the most part, covered with 
Guinea-grass pastures on the lower ranges, and with coflee 
plantations and provision grounds higher up. When we 
had ridden clear of the mist, the sun was shining brightly 
overhead, and every thing was fresh and sparkling with dew- 
drops near us; but the vale was still concealed under the 
wool-like sea of white mist, only pierced here and there by 
a tall cocoa-nut tree rising above it, like the mast of a foun- 
dered vessel. But anon the higher ridges of the grass pieces 
appeared, as the fog undulated in fleecy waves in the passing 
breeze, wdiich, as it rose and sank like the swell of the ocean, 
disclosed every now and then the works on some high-lying 
sugar estate, and again rolled over them like the tide cover- 
ing the shallows of the sea, while shouts of laughter, and 
the whooping of the negroes in the fields, rose from out the 
obscurity, blended with the signal cries of the sugar boilers 
to the stockholemen of “ Fire, fire— grand copper, grand cop- 
per,” and the ca-caing, like so many rooks, of the children 
driving the mules and oxen in the mills, and the everlasting 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


510 

splashing and panting of the water-wheel of the estate im- 
mediately below us, and the crashing and smashing of the 
canes, as they were crushed between the mill rollers; and 
the cracking of the wain and waggonmen’s long whips, and 
the rumbling, and creaking, and squealing of the machinery 
of the mills, and of the carriage- wheels; while the smoke 
from the unseen chimney-stalks of the sugar-works rose 
whirling darkly up through the watery veil, like spinning 
waterspouts, from out the bosom of the great deep. Anon 
the veil rose, and we were once more gradually enveloped 
in vapour. Presently the thickest of the mist floated up, 
and rose above us like a gauze-like canopy of fleecy clouds 
overhanging the whole level plain, through which the red 
quenched sun, which a moment before was flaming with in- 
tolerable brightness overhead, suddenly assumed the appear- 
ance of a round red globe in an apothecary’s window, sur- 
rounded by a broad yellow sickly halo, which dimly lit up, 
as if the sun had been in eclipse, the cane-fields, then in 
arrow , as it is called, (a lavender-coloured flower, about three 
feet long, that shoots out from the top of the cane, denoting 
that it is mature, and fit to be ground,) and the Guinea-grass 
plats, and the nice-looking houses of the busha’s, and the 
busy mill -yards, and the noisy gangs of negroes in the field, 
which were all disclosed, as if by the change of a scene. 

At length, in love as we were, we remembered our break- 
fast; and beginning to descend, we encountered in the path 
a gang of about three dozen little glossy black piccaninies 
going to their work, the oldest not above twelve years of 
age, under the care of an old negress. They had all their 
little packies, or calabashes, on their heads, full of provisions ; 
while an old cook, with a bundle of fagots on her head, and 
a fire stick in her hand, brought up the rear, her province 
being to cook the food which the tiny little work-people 
carried. Presently several bookkeepers, or deputy white su- 
perintendents on the plantation, also passed, — strong healthy- 
looking young fellows, in stuff jackets and white trowsers, 
and all with good cudgels in their hands. The mist, which 
had continued to rise up and up, growing thinner and thinner 
as it ascended, now rent overhead about the middle of the 
vale, and the masses, like scattered clouds, drew towards the 
ledge of hills that surrounded it, like floating chips of wood 
in a tub of water, sailing in long shreds towards the most 
precipitous peaks, to which, as they ascended, they attached 
themselves, and remained at rest. And now the fierce sun, 
reasserting his supremacy, shone once more in all his tropical 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 51 1 

fierceness right down on the steamy earth, and all was glare, 
and heat, and bustle. 

Next morning, I rode out at daylight along with Mr Bang, 
who had arrived on the previous evening. We stopped to 
breakfast at a property of his about four miles distant, and 
certainly we had no reason to complain of our fare — fresh 
fish from the gully, nicely roasted yams, a capital junk of 
salt beef, a dish I always glory in on shore, although a hint 
of it at sea makes me quake; and, after our repast, I once 
more took the road to see the estate in company of my 
learned friend. There was a long narrow saddle, or ridge of 
limestone, about five hundred feet high, that separated the 
southern quarter of the parish from the northern. The cane- 
pieces, and cultivated part of the estate, lay in a dead level of 
deep black mould, to the southward of this ridge, from out 
which the latter rose abruptly. The lower part of the ridge 
was clothed with the most luxuriant orange, shaddock, 
lime, star-apple, bread-fruit, and custard apple-trees, besides 
numberless others that I cannot particularize, while the 
summit was shaded by tall forest timber. Proceeding along 
a rough bridle-path for the space of two miles, we attained 
the highest part of the saddle, and turned sharp off to the 
right, to follow a small footpath that had been billed in the 
bush, being the lines recently run by the land surveyor be- 
tween Mr Bang’s property and the neighbouring estate, the 
course of which mine host was desirous of personally in- 
specting. We therefore left our horses in charge of our ser- 
vants, who had followed us, running behind, holding on by 
their tails, and began to brush through the narrow path cut 
in the hot underwood. After walking a hundred yards or 
so, we arrived at the point where the path ended abruptly, 
abutting against a large tree that had been felled, the stump 
of which remained, being about three feet high, and at least 
five in diameter. Mr Bang immediately perched himself on 
it to look about him, to see the lay of the land over the sea 
of brushwood. I remained below, complaining loudly of the 
heat and confined air of my situation, and swabbing all the 
while most energetically, when I saw my friend start. 

“Zounds, Tom, look behind you!” We had nothing but 
our riding switches in our hands. A large snake, about ten 
feet long, had closed up the path in our rear, sliding slowly 
from one branch to another, and hissing and striking out its 
forked tongue, as it twisted itself, at the height of my head 
from the ground, amongst the trees and bushes, round and 
round about, occasionally twining its neck round a tree a 3 
thick as my body, on one side of the path, and its tail round. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


512 

another, larger in girth than my leg, on the other; when it 
would, with prodigious strength, but the greatest ease, and 
the most oily smoothness, bend the smaller tree like a hoop, 
until the trunks nearly touched, although growing full six 
feet asunder ; as if a tacklef all, or other strong purchase, had 
been applied; but continuing all the while it was putting 
forth its power, to glide soapily along, quite unconcernedly, 
and to all appearance as pliant as a leather thong, — shooting 
out its glancing neck, and glowering about with- its little 
blasting fiery eyes, — and sliding the forepart of the body 
onwards without pausing, as if there had been no strain on 
the tail whatsoever, until the stems of the two trees were at 
length brought together, when it let the smaller go with a 
loud spank, that shook the dew off the neighbouring branches, 
and the perspiration from Tom Cringle’s forehead — whose 
nerves were not more steady than the tree — like rain, and 
frightened all the birds in the neighbourhood; while it, the 
only unstartled thing, continued steadily and silently on its 
course, — turning and looking at us, and poking its head with- 
in arm’s length, and raising it with a loud hiss, and a threat- 
ening attitude, on our smallest motion. 

“A modern group of the Laocoon — lord, what a neckcloth 
we shall both have presently ! ” thought I. 

Meanwhile, the serpent seemed to be emboldened from our 
quietude, and came so near, that I thought I perceived the 
hot glow of its breath, with its scales glancing like gold and 
silver, and its diamond-like eyes sparkling; but all so still 
and smooth, that unless it were an occasional hiss, its motions 
were noiseless as those of an apparition. 

At length the devil came fairly between us, and I could 
stand it no longer. We had both up to this period been 
really and truly fascinated; but the very instant x that the 
coast was clear in my wake , by the snake heading me, and 
gliding between me and Mr Bang, my manhood forsook me 
all of a heap, and, turning tail, I gave a loud shout, and 
started off down the path at speed, never once looking be- 
hind, and leaving Bang to his fate, perched on his pedestal, 
like the laughing satyr; however, the next moment I heard 
him thundering in my rear. My panic had been contagious, 
for the instant my sudden motion had frightened the snake 
out of its way, Bang started forth after me at speed, and 
away we both raced, until a stump caught my foot, and both 
of us, after flying through the air a couple of fathoms or so, 
trundled head over heels, over and over, shouting and laugh- 
ing. Pegtop now came up to us in no small surprise, but the 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 513 

adventure was at an end, and we returned to Mr Bang’s to 
dinner. 

Here we had an agreeable addition to our party in Sir 
Jeremy Mayo, and the family of the Admiral Sir Samuel 
Semaphore, his lady, his two most amiable daughters, and 
the husband of the eldest. 

Next morning we rode out to breakfast with a very worthy 
man, Mr Stornaway, the overseer of Mount Olive estate, in 
the neighbourhood of which there were several natural curi- 
osities to be seen. Although the extent of our party startled 
him a good deal, he received us most hospitably. He ushered 
us into the piazza, where breakfast was laid, when up rose 
ten thousand flies from the breakfast-table, that was covered 
with marmalade, and guava jelly, and nicely roasted yams, 
and fair white bread ; and the fragrant bread-fruit roasted in 
the ashes, and wrapped in plaintain leaves; while the choco- 
late and coffee-pots — the latter equal, in cubic contents, to 
one of the Wave’s water-butts — emulated each other in the 
fragrance of the odours which they sent forth; and avocado 
pears, and potted calipiver, and cold pork hams, and — really, 
I cannot repeat the numberless luxuries that flanked the main 
body of the entertainment on a side-table, all strong pro- 
vocatives to fall to. 

“ You, Quacco — Peter — Monkey” — shouted Stornaway — 
“ where are you, with your brushes; don’t you see the flies 
covering the table?” The three sable pages forthwith ap- 
peared, each with a large green branch in his hand, which 
they waved over the viands, and we sat down and had a most 
splendid breakfast. Lady Semaphore and I — for I have al- 
ways had a touch of the old woman in me — were exceedingly 
tickled with the way in which the piccaniny mummas, that 
is, the mothers of the negro children, received our friend 
Bang. After breakfast, a regular muster took place under 
the piazza of all the children on the property, under eight 
years of age, accompanied by their mothers. 

“Ah, Massa Bang,” shouted one, “why you no come see 
we oftener? you forget your poor piccaniny hereabout.” 

“ You grow foolish old man now,” quoth another. 

“ You no wort — you go live in town, an’ no care about we 
who make massa money here; you no see we all tarving 
here ;” and the nice cleanly-looking fat matron, who made the 
remark, laughed loudly. 

He entered into the spirit of the affair with great kindli- 
ness, and verily, before he got clear, his pockets were, as 
empty as a half-pay lieutenant’s. His fee-pennies were flying 
about in all directions. 


5 T 4 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


After breakfast, we went to view the natural bridge, a band 
of rock that connects two hills together, and beneath which 
a roaring stream rushes, hid entirely by the bushes and 
trees that grow on each side of the ravine. We descended 
by a circuitous footpath into the river-course, and walked 
under the natural arch, and certainly never was anything 
finer; a regular Der Freyschutz dell. The arch overhead 
was nearly fifty feet high, and the echo was superb, as we 
found, when the sweet voices of the ladies, blending in softest 
harmony — (lord, how fine you become, Tom!) — in one of 
Moore’s melodies, were reflected back on us at the close with 
the most thrilling distinctness ; while a stone, pitched against 
any of the ivy-like creepers, with which the face of the rock 
was covered, was sure to dislodge a whole cloud of birds, and 
not unfrequently a slow-sailing white-winged owl. Shortly 
after the Riomango Gully, as it is called, passes this most 
interesting spot, it sinks, and runs for three miles under 
ground, and again reappears on the surface, and gurgles over 
the stones, as if nothing had happened. By the by, this is 
a common vagary of nature in Jamaica. For instance, the 
Rio Cobre, I think it is, which, after a subterranean course 
of three miles, suddenly gushes out of the solid rock at By- 
brook estate, in a solid cube of clear cold water, three feet 
in diameter; and I remember, in a cruise that I had at an- 
other period in my life, in the leeward part of the Island, we 
came to an estate, where the supply of water for the ma- 
chinery rose up within the bounds of the mill-dam itself, 
into which there was no flow, with such force, that above 
the spring, if I might so call it, the bubbling water was pro- 
jected into a blunt cone, like the bottom of a cauldron, the 
apex of which was a foot higher than the level of the pond, 
although the latter was eighteen feet deep. 

After an exceedingly pleasant day we returned home, and 
next morning, when I got out of bed, I complained of a 
violent itching and pain, a sort of nondescript sensation, a 
mixture of pain and pleasure in my starboard great toe, and 
on reconnoitring, I discovered it to be a good deal inflamed 
on the ball, round a blue spot about the size of a pinhead. 
Pegtop had come into the room, and while he was placing 
my clothes in order, I asked him “ What this could be — gout, 
think you, Massa Pegtop — gout ? ” > 

“ Gote, massa — gote — no, no, him chiger, massa — chiger — 
little something like one flea; poke him head under de kin, 
dere lay egg; ah, great luxury to creole gentleman and lady 
dat chiger; sweet pain, creole miss say — nice for cratch him, 
him say.” 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 515 

“ Why, it may be a creole luxury, Pegtop, but I wish you 
would relieve me of it.” 

“ Surely, massa, surely, if you wish it,” said Pegtop, in 
some surprise at my want of taste. “ Lend me your penknife 
den, massa;” and he gabbled away as he extracted from my 
flesh the chiger bag — like a blue pill in size and colour. 

“ Oh, massa, top till you marry creole wife, she will tell 
you me say true ; ah, daresay Miss Mary himself love chiger 
to tickle him — to be sure him love to be tickle — him love 
to be tickle — ay, all creole miss love to be tickle — he, he, 
he!” 

By agreement, Mr Bang and I met Mr Stornaway this 
morning, in order to visit some other estates together, and 
during our ride I was particularly gratified by his company. 
He was a man of solid and very extensive acquirements, and 
far above what his situation in life at that time led one to 
expect. When I revisited the island some years afterwards, 
I was rejoiced to find that his intrinsic worth and ability had 
floated him up into a very extensive business, and I believe 
he is now a man of property. I rather think he is engaged 
in some statistical work connected with Jamaica, which, I 
am certain, will do him credit whenever it appears. Odd 
enough, the very first time I saw him, I said I was sure he 
would succeed in the world; and I am glad to find I was a 
true prophet. To return : Our chief object at present was to 
visit a neighbouring estate, the overseer of which was, we 
were led to believe from a message sent to Mr Bang, very 
ill with fever. He was a most respectable young man, Mr 
Stornaway told me, a Swede by birth, who had come over 
to England with his parents at the early age of eight years, 
where both he and his cousin Agatha had continued, until 
he embarked for the West Indies. This was an orphan girl 
whom his father had adopted, and both of them, as he had 
often told Mr Stornaway, had utterly forgotten their Swedish 
— in fact, they understood no language but English at the 
time he embarked. I have been thus particular, from a very 
extraordinary phenomenon that occurred immediately pre- 
ceding his dissolution, of which I was a witness. 

We rode up in front of the door, close to the fixed manger, 
where the horses and mules belonging to the busha are 
usually fed, and encountered a negro servant on a mule, with 
an umbrella-case slung across his back, and a portmanteau 
behind him, covered with the usual sheep’s fleece, and holding 
a saddle-horse. 

“ Where is your master ? ” said Mr Bang. 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


“ De dactor is in de hose,” replied quashie. “ Busha dere 
upon dying.” 

We ascended the rocky unhewn steps, and entered the cool 
dark hall, smelling strong of camphor, and slid over the 
polished floors towards an open door, that led into the back 
piazza, where we were received by the head bookkeeper and 
carpenter. They told us that the overseer had been seized 
three days before with fever, and was now desperately ill; 
and presently the doctor came forth out of the sick-room. 

“ Poor Wedderfelt is fast going, sir — cold at the extremi- 
ties already — very bad fever — the bilious remittent of the 
country, of the worst type.” 

All this while the servants, male and female, were whis- 
pering to each other; while a poor little black fellow sat at 
the door of the room, crying bitterly — this was the overseer’s 
servant. We entered the room, which was darkened from the 
jealousies being all shut, except one of the uppermost, which 
happening to be broken, there was a strong pensil of light 
cast across the head of the bed where the sick man lay, while 
the rest of the apartment was involved in gloom. 

The sufferer seemed in the last stage of yellow fever; his 
skin was a bright yellow, his nose sharp, and his general 
features very much pinched. His head had been shaven, and 
there was a handkerchief bound round it over a plantain 
leaf, the mark of the blister coming low down on his fore- 
head, where the skin was shrivelled like dry parchment — ap- 
parently it had not risen. There was also a blister on his 
chest. He was very restless, clutching the bedclothes, and 
tossing his limbs about; his mouth was ulcerated, and blood 
oozed from the corners; his eyes were a deep yellow, with 
the pupil much dilated, and very lustrous; he was breathing 
with a heavy moaning noise when we entered, and looked 
wildly round, mistaking Mr Bang and me for some other 
persons. Presently he began to speak very quickly, and to 
lift one of his hands repeatedly close to his face, as if there 
was something in it he wished to look at. I presently saw 
that it held a miniature of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, Scandi- 
navian girl; but apparently he could not see it, from the 
increasing dimness of his eyes, which seemed to distress him 
greatly. After a still minute, during which no sound was 
heard but his own heavy breathing, he again began to speak 
very rapidly, . but no one in the room could make out what 
he said. I listened attentively — it struck me as being like 
— I was certain of it — it was Swedish, which in health he 
had entirely forgotten, but now in his dying moments vividly 
remembered. Alas ! it was a melancholy and a moving sight, 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


517 


to perceive all the hitherto engrossing thoughts and inci- 
dents of his youth and manhood, all save the love of one dear 
object, suddenly vanished from the tablet of his memory, 
ground away and abrased, as it were, by his great agony — 
or like worthless rubbish, removed from above some beauti- 
ful ancient inscription, which for ages it had hid, disclosing 
in all their primeval freshness, sharp cut into his dying heart, 
the long-smothered, but never-to-be-obliterated impressions 
of his early childhood. I could plainly distinguish the name 
Agatha, whenever he peered with fast glazing eyes on the 
miniature. All this while a nice little brown child was lying 
playing with his watch and seals on the bed beside him, 
while a handsome coloured girl, a slight young creature, ap- 
parently its mother, sat on the other side of the dying man, 
supporting his head on her lap, and wetting his mouth every 
now and then with a cloth dipped in brandy. 

As he raised the miniature to his face, she would gently 
endeavour to turn away his hand, that he might not look at 
one whom she, poor thing, no doubt considered was usurp- 
ing the place in his fluttering heart, that she long fancied 
had been filled by herself solely; and at other times she 
would vainly try to coax it out of his cold hand, but the 
dying grasp was now one of iron, and her attempts evidently 
discomposed the departing sinner; but all was done kindly 
and quietly, and a flood of tears would every now and then 
stream down her cheeks, as she failed in her endeavours, or as 
the murmured, gasped name, A gatha, reached her ear. 

“ Ah ! ” said she, “ him heart not wid me now — it far away 
in him own country — him never will make me yeerie what 
him say again no more.” 

Oh, woman, woman! who can fathom that heart of thine! 
By this time the hiccup grew stronger, and all at once he 
sat up strong in his bed without assistance, “ light as if he 
felt no wound;” but immediately thereafter gave a strong 
shudder, ejecting from his mouth a jet of dark matter like 
the grounds of chocolate, and fell back dead — whereupon the 
negroes began to howl and shriek in such a horrible fashion 
that we were glad to leave the scene. 

Next day, when we returned to attend the poor fellow’s 
funeral, we found a complete bivouac of horses and black 
servants under the trees in front of the house, which was full 
of neighbouring planters and overseers, all walking about, 
and talking, and laughing, as if it had been a public meet- 
ing on parish business. Some of them occasionally went into 
the room to look at the body as it lay in the open coffin, the 
lid of which was at length screwed down, and the corpse 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


518 

carried on four negroes’ shoulders to its long home, followed 
by the brown girl and all the servants, the latter weeping 
and howling; but she, poor thing, said not a word, although 
her heart seemed, from the convulsive heaving of her bosom, 
like to burst. He was buried under a neighbouring orange- 
tree, the service being read by the Irish carpenter of the 
estate, who got half a page into the marriage service by 
mistake before either he or any one else noticed he was 
wrong. 

Three days after this the admiral extended my leave for a 
fortnight, which I spent in a tour round this most glorious 
island with friend Aaron, whose smiling face, like the sun, 
(more like the nor’west moon in a fog, by the by,) seemed 
to diffuse warmth, and comfort, and happiness, wherever he 
went, while Sir Samuel and his charming family, and the 
general, and my dearie, and her aunt, returned home; and 
after a three weeks’ philandering, I was married, and all that 
sort of thing, and a week afterwards embarked with my 
treasure — for I had half a million of dollars on freight, as 
well as my own particular jewel ; and don’t grin at the former, 
for they gave me a handsome sum, and helped to rig us 
when we got to Ould England, where Lotus-leaf was paid off, 
and I settled for a time on shore, the happiest, &c. &c. &c., 
until some years afterwards, when the wee Cringles began to 
tumble home so deucedly fast, that I had to cut and run, and 
once more betake myself to the salt sea. My aunt and her 
family returned at the same time to England, in a merchant 
ship under my convoy, and became our neighbours. Bang 
also got married soon after to Miss Lucretia Wagtail, by 
whom he got the Slap estate. But old Gelid and my other 
allies remain, I believe, in single-blessedness until this hour. 


My tale is told — my yarn is ended, — and were I to spin 
it longer, I fear it would be only bending it “ end for end ;” 
yet still I linger, “like the sough of an auld sang” on the 
ear, loath to pronounce that stern heart-crushing word, that 
yet “has been and must be,” and which, during my bois- 
terous and unsettled morning, has been alas! a too familiar 
one with me. I hope I shall always bless heaven for my 
fair blinks, although, as the day has wore on, I have had my 
own share of lee currents, hard gales, and foul weather ; and 
many an old and dear friend has lately swamped alongside 
of me, while few new ones have shoved out to replace them. 
But suffering, that scathes the heart, does not always make 


TOM CRINGLE’S LOG 


519 


it callous; and I feel much of the woman hanging about 
mine still — even now, when the tide is on the turn with 
me, and the iron voice of the inexorable First-Lieutenant, 
Time, has sung out, “ Strike the bell eight,” — every chime 
smiting on my soul as if an angel spoke, to warn me, that 
my stormy forenoon watch is at length over — that the sun 
now passing the meridian, must soon decline towards the 
western horizon, and who shall assure himself of a cloudless 
setting ? 

I have, in very truth, now reached the summit of the bald 
spray-washed promontory, and stand on the slippery ledge 
of the cliff, that trembles to the thundering of the surge be- 
neath; but the plunge must be made — so at once, Farewell 
all hands, and God bless ye! If, while chucking the cap 
about at a venture — but I hope and trust there has been no 
such thing — it has alighted on the head of some ancient ally, 
and pinched in any the remotest degree, I hereby express 
my most sincere and heartfelt regret; and to such a one I 
would say, as he said, who wrote for all time, 

“ I have shot 

Mine arrow o’er the house, and hurt my brother.” 

Thus I cut my stick while the play is good, and before the 
public gets wearied of me; and, as for the Log, it is now 
launched, swim or founder; if those things be good, it will 
float from its own buoyancy; if they be naught, let it sink 
at once and for ever — all that Tom Cringle expects at the 
hands of his countrymen, is — A CLEAR STAGE, AND NO 
FAVOUR. 


THE END 



















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